


All Flowers Keep the Light

by NextFewWords



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anti-Neal, Asylum, F/M, Greenhouse, Smut, brief domestic violence, period au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextFewWords/pseuds/NextFewWords
Summary: France, 1966. After a hurried wedding due to the birth of her son, Emma and her new husband, Neal Cassidy, move to the quiet French countryside for a fresh start. With Neal working late at the psychiatric hospital next door, it is left to Emma to find her own way to settle in to her new life. Desperate to find a way to pass the time, and to find meaning in her life outside of being a mother, Emma takes it upon herself to revive the facility’s neglected greenhouse. But when a handsome blue eyed patient offers to help her look after the plants, everything in Emma’s world changes.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Setting inspired by the book “Let Me Tell You About a Man I Knew” by Susan Fletcher, though this fic shares little to no resemblance to it plot wise. Beta'd by the phenomenal HelloTragic, who patiently watches me disregard word count caps and is objective when I can’t be.

* * *

It had taken several days of sorting through boxes to find the small french press that she had packed away at the last minute weeks ago. It had nearly been left behind, it’s presence in the cramped kitchen as inherent as the yellowed cupboard doors or the leaky faucet that Emma had become accustomed to over the years. Neal had insisted on leaving it behind, arguing that they wouldn’t have need of such an old relic at their new cottage, but Emma had insisted. If she was having to leave everything she had ever known to move into the middle of the French countryside, she was going to have her favourite coffee press with her. No compromises. An eye roll and a muttered complaint later, and the machine had been packed away at the top of the nearest box.

Even now, as the dull metal press stuck out like a sore thumb on the otherwise spotless countertop, Emma couldn’t regret her decision to bring it. As old as it was, it could still brew a delicious cup of coffee, and the aroma of the bitter beans filled the air with the familiar scent of ‘home’. She poured two cups - one for herself and one for Neal - and carried them to where the mini milk pitcher and sugar pot were laid out on the small kitchen table. Neal barely raised his head as she sat across from her, too engrossed in his newspaper. She nudged one of the cups in his direction and he broke away momentarily to reach across and drag the saucer towards him. A moment later his nose was back between the thin sheets, his face obscured from view once more. Emma didn’t know why he bothered; the biggest headline to break from the little French village over the past few days was their arrival. She could still see her husband’s name printed in large bold type on the front page, alongside a stream of excited remarks about what could be expected from the new director of Baudelaire, the region’s psychiatric facility. The last page of the paper contained letters of complaints from a handful of outspoken townspeople, arguing that the “ugly eyesore” ought to be shut down and the patients sent elsewhere. To where, they never seemed to specify, but the sentiment was strong. Emma had since decided to stop reading that section of the paper.

A loud screech broke Emma from her thoughts, as her attention was drawn to the little wooden pen that had been set up in the corner of the sizeable dining area. The occupant inside was standing precariously on chubby legs, little fists clenched firmly on the rowed bars that separated him from freedom. Emma stood, brushing her hands against her apron as she approached the pen, eliciting more excited squeals from the toddler inside. Little Henry’s arms were up and reaching for her the instant she was over him, and it was only her quick motherly reflexes that caught him from toppling over on his bottom. With a huff, Emma hefted the infant into her arms and returned to her seat at the table. It was only the year of practice that kept her from spilling the hot coffee across the table as Henry squirmed in her lap.

“Are you going to be home for supper?” She asked, grimacing as Henry’s little fingers wrapped around a coil of her blond hair and tugged hard.

“I’m not sure,” Neal replied absently, not looking up.

“When will you know?”

“I don’t know.”

The short answers were starting to grate on her.

“Will you call?” She pressed, her tone sharp. That seemed to grab her husband’s attention as he sighed, and laid his newspaper to the side, giving her a look.

“Emma,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve only been at this job for three days now. There is still so much to do, so many files that I need to go through before I can get everything settled. You can’t possibly understand the stress I am under from the rest of the board members. I can’t be expected to be home all the time _babying_ you.”

Emma stiffened in anger. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I cannot be certain what time I will be home.”

“But you can still call,” Emma pointed out, conscious of the toddler in her lap. She didn’t want to raise her voice in front of Henry, but Neal’s thickheaded remarks never failed to make her blood boil. It seemed like every conversation they had had over the past few weeks had ended in raised voices, and she was determined to change that. A fresh start - that had been the plan.

“Fine,” Neal huffed, standing to collect his paper and rapidly cooling cup of coffee. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The call never came, of course. It shouldn’t have annoyed her as much as it did - it wasn’t the first promise that Neal had failed to keep - but Emma had still been fuming by the time Henry had been bathed and put to bed. Emma waited up for him in the living room, a flurry of heated words already on her tongue as the remnants of their dinner cooled on the table, the tall candles between her empty plate and his full one long extinguished. She gave up when the loud “bong” of the grandfather clock in the corner announced that it was nearly midnight, startling her from her sleep. Pulling herself up from the soft cushioned sofa, she trudged upstairs and prepared for bed. She left the lights off, too tired to do much more than brush her teeth and rinse the remnants of the day from her face. She slipped in between the fresh linens of their shared bed a few minutes later.

It seemed only seconds later that she felt a body slide in behind hers, a cold hand wrapping around her middle as a cold nose nuzzled against her neck.

“Did you eat?” Emma whispered, her eyes closed.

“No,” came her husband’s gruff response. She could smell a faint whiff of bourbon on his breath. He had been drinking in his office again.

His hands rubbed soft circles against her stomach, his fingers dancing closer and closer to the open collar of her nightgown. He was still in his trousers, though he had stripped to his undershirt. Still, she could feel where his hips pressed into her bottom that he had no intentions of sleeping, at least not yet, and the thought brought a fresh wave of anger coursing through her.

“I can’t keep doing this, Neal.”

His hand stopped where it had been slowly making its way to her hips, though he made no move to release his grip. “What do you mean?”

“You said when we moved here that it would be better for us. _All_ of us. A fresh start.”

“And look at you now! You don’t have to worry about a thing. I do all the work, and -”

“Don’t you see, though?” She insisted, cutting him off. “That’s my point. You’re gone all day and I’m cooped up in the house alone.”

“You have Henry.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then find something to do.”

“Like what?”

“How the hell should I know?” He countered, his hand coming away from her waist. Emma squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through her anger. She was so tired of this, and by the muffled sound of his own sigh as he raked his hand across his face, he was too.

“I’ll talk to the receptionist tomorrow and see what needs doing at Baudelaire. You don’t have any skills, do you?”

“I may not have a doctorate, but I’m still good at some things, I’ll have you know.”

“God, Emma. I didn’t mean it like that.” The tension hung heavy in the air between them and, for a moment, Emma thought that he’d fallen asleep. A minute later, his rough voice broke the silence once more. “You will try to like it here, won’t you?”

“I am.”

He said nothing after that, his earlier mood tarnished and his body rolling to face away from her. It didn’t take long for his heavy snores to fill the air as her husband fell into a liquored slumber. Emma curled in on herself, forcing her eyes shut as she beat down the hope that Neal’s new promise had inspired. It would be hours later before she finally drifted off to sleep.

 

\--

 

Two days later, Neal had an answer for her; a gardener.

According to the receptionist, Baudelaire had once had a lovely and flourishing greenhouse until it had fallen into disrepair a few years ago. The plants currently housed inside were likely dead, but Neal had been assured that they would be able to scrounge up the supplies to replace them. Emma had never been one for gardening, and she didn’t know the first thing about running a greenhouse, but it was the best news she had received in days and she wasn’t about to let the opportunity to get out of the house slip through her fingers.

Neal had adamantly refused to let Henry anywhere near the facility, so he had arranged a nanny to take care of the boy during the day while his parents worked. Emma had been hesitant - she hadn’t had a chance to meet any of the villagers, let alone screen them for nanny services - but the petite blond woman who arrived the next morning was friendly enough. She didn’t seem to mind a bit as Emma reviewed and repeated every safety procedure and every detailed second of Henry’s daily routine with her, periodically giving a polite nod to Emma’s instructions and a sweet smile at the toddler in her arms. A quick kiss goodbye later, Emma was off.

The cottage was located in the northernmost part of the grounds, separated from the main building of the asylum by only a few hundred meters of green pasture. Emma crossed it easily, the brisk fall morning air not enough to penetrate her thick wool jacket. Even at this distance, the asylum appeared to tower above the rest of the village. It rose like a white castle amongst the modest houses scattered along the grassy hillside, the sharp peaks taller than any tree around it. Emma had only been inside a handful of times since arriving, mostly as Neal’s guest as the administrators led them around the grounds of their ‘new home’. Henry had accompanied them that day and had spent most of the excursion clinging to his mother’s neck and pressing his face into her cheek to hide away from the strange new faces. The administrators had all cooed and looked fondly upon the shy toddler, but Neal had clearly been annoyed at the display.

The greenhouse was attached to a smaller out-building, located in the north-east corner of the grounds, however rules dictated that everyone entering or exiting the facility had to sign in at the main entrance - visiting family and staff included. Emma found the groundskeeper waiting for her by the arched entrance way that led into the main building - a tall, scruffed man by the name of Graham, whose eyes lingered on her slightly longer than was probably appropriate. He led Emma inside the old brick building and helped her sign in, presenting her with a pass that identified her as a volunteer, and showing her the way to the greenhouse outdoors.

Possibly to give her some privacy - or, just as likely, on the orders of her husband - Graham left her on her own in the glass room, surrounded by boxes, trays of fresh dirt, and potted plants of various species and proximity to death. There were two long wooden picnic tables pushed up against the long walls of the room and Emma had to brush aside the thick layer of dirt and dust that covered every square inch of its surface before she could lay her bag and coat down. The air was stuffy and overly humid, and Emma had to work to pry one of the windows open. The wooden frame protested under her hands, and it took all the strength she could muster to inch the pane open. Eventually, it came free, letting in a soft breeze and the smell of fresh cut grass. Graham had already been hard at work on the vast expanse of the facility’s lawns, it seemed.

Satisfied that she would finally be able to breathe in the cramped room, Emma set to work removing the shelves of dead plants and replacing them with trays of fresh soil. It was hard work, and after a few hours, Emma’s arms began to ache and a thin layer of sweat dampened her brow.

By the time the rotten plants had been removed and dragged outside to where Graham was due to collect them, the sun had already begun to sink low in the sky. Satisfied with her day’s work, she dropped her tools to the side and set off for the main building to sign out for the day. The receptionist gave her a once over as she entered, taking in the dust and dirt smeared into her clothing with mild disapproval, but silently accepted her pass.

Emma’s legs felt like lead as she opened the door to the small cottage, though she still had enough energy to scoop up the squealing boy that made his way over to her the instant she was across the threshold. Tink waited patiently by the door as Emma bombarded the boy with kisses as he squirmed and giggled in her arms, his legs bouncing and kicking with delight. After a sincere thanks and a reconfirmation that she would be expected at the same time the next morning, Emma bade the nursemaid a good evening and prepared Henry for bed. It was a task made easier by the fact that Tink had already changed the boy into his pyjamas, but Emma was still exhausted by the time she finally crawled into bed herself. She was already fast asleep by the time Neal returned that night, smelling of his usual booze and cigars.

 

\--

 

The next few days followed the same routine; waking up after Neal had already left for work, kissing Henry goodbye as Tink arrived to give him his morning walk to the park, and spending the afternoon locked away in the greenhouse. She returned every evening exhausted, but satisfied. Neal had complained once or twice that her cooking had become lazy since her focus had been pulled elsewhere, leading to an unpleasant meal of silence and tension. Emma wasn’t sure how Tink had found out - or if she had even found out - but the next day, Emma had come home to a dinner already started on the stove. Emma had insisted on paying her for her extra duties, but Tink had refused politely, saying that she had very little to do when Henry went down for his afternoon nap. Emma had let it go, though she made a mental note to add in a very generous bonus to the end of her monthly pay.

The routine had become so ingrained in her that she almost yelped in fright the morning a figure approached her from behind and placed a soft hand to her shoulder. As it was, she dropped the pot she had been holding in her hands, jumping back as the pottery shattered into pieces at her feet.

_“Are you alright?”_

“Yes. Yes, I -”

She glanced up and found that the rest of her words seemed to die in her mouth.

The blue eyes that met hers were breathtaking, even filled with apology as they were. His gaze flickered over her in concern as he lent a hand to help her up from her spot on the floor. She let herself be guided up, his strong hands leaving her arms as she regained her feet underneath her. As soon as he seemed confident that she wasn’t harmed, he returned to his knees to clean the shattered pottery. Even unkempt, his dark hair looked soft enough to run her fingers through, a strong contrast against the rough scruff peppered across his cheeks.

A married woman could still appreciate a fine man when she saw one, and the man before her was nothing short of gorgeous.

Her eyes roamed lower over his figure before widening in surprise at the thin linens he was clothed in. They were the same faded grey pyjamas that she had seen a dozen times already on her walk into Baudelaire every morning.

“You’re a…” She stopped herself, already regretting her words.

“A patient, love,” he supplied with a small smile, moving the handful of pieces to the trash before returning to stand before her.

Emma flushed. _What a way to make an introduction_ , she mentally chastised herself. She hadn’t wanted to offend him, though he did appear to be more amused with her lack of tact.

“Sorry,” she started again, wiping her hands on a towel from the workbench. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here.”

“Neither was I,” he admitted. Brushing the dirt from his fingers across his trouser leg, he stuck out hand to shake hers. “Killian Jones.”

“Emma.”

“Emma…?” He was waiting for her surname. It was a knee jerk reaction, but she found that she didn’t want him to know her status as the wife of the current director. She hadn’t thought to ask Neal whether the patients were on good terms with the staff, and she wasn’t willing to find out while alone with one in a secluded greenhouse.

“Just Emma,” she replied instead, keeping her smile fixed in place.

“Well, it is lovely to meet you, ‘just Emma’,” he continued, releasing her hand. “Are you the new head gardener?”

“Something like that. I volunteered.”

“Ah, a saint, then. As you can see here,” he said, gesturing to the haphazard mess of dead vines and barely recognizable plants strewn around the room, “the greenhouse is in dire need of it.”

“I see that,” she agreed. “When they told me the greenhouse was in bad shape, I had no idea it was going to be quite this bad.”

“Can I be of any assistance to you?”

Emma blinked in surprise. “Do you know anything about plants?”

He shrugged. “I know a thing or two.”

“Alright,” Emma agreed. “I suppose it can’t hurt. Welcome aboard, Mr. Jones.”

“Just Killian,” he insisted, as Emma handed him a pair of work gloves and a miniature spade.

Bringing Killian aboard proved to be the right decision. Along with being the most handsome man she had ever seen planting Amazon lilies, the man did, in fact, seem to know a thing or two about plants. Though his words had clearly been an understatement; she quickly found that whenever she had a question about a certain flower or a certain type of seed, Killian was quick with an explanation. Within a matter of minutes, the man had familiarised himself with every plant in the greenhouse, and had begun grouping them based on water and sunlight needs. It was a much needed relief; it had taken too much time comparing pictures of each seed and plant against the detailed diagrams and pictures depicted in the gardener’s manual she had picked up from the second hand shop in town. With any luck, they could possibly have the greenhouse up and running within a matter of days.

It wasn’t just his know-how that Emma found enlightening; he also proved himself to be a phenomenal storyteller. The facility tended to have the effect of making one extremely chatty when a willing ear presented itself, she supposed. He skirted around anything to do with the facility itself, but a few nudged questions had him opening up about other things. He was intrigued to find out that she was new to the town, and had a barrage of stories about the long time residents. The bank, he explained, was open every day of the week at the same hour, although he cautioned against going any day but Monday. He had a nickname for each of the bank tellers - each named after a dwarf from _Snow White_ \- and only ‘Doc’ seemed to know how to properly process a pay cheque without error. Thursdays were out of the question, he cautioned, given that the only way to get the teller to serve you on that day was to send someone into the back to wake ‘Sleepy’ from his nap. Emma promised that she would heed the advice, though she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wouldn’t be receiving any pay cheques to cash.

Going through, stone by stone, Killian gave her the rundown on the run down village. Though he admitted to being a bit of a recluse prior to his admission into Baudelaire, he seemed well acquainted with everyone in the town, and each resident had a story. For example, he was certain that the elderly local carpenter, Geppetto, possessed magic; the way the man could turn a log of wood into a work of art was unparalleled to anything found in any castle. And the ice cream shop on the main road was home to the best frozen desserts in the world, he claimed. That was, if one was able to overlook the frosty disposition of the shop owner. A lot of his information was fairly dated, he admitted, but he hoped the landmarks would still be there for her to enjoy. The comment hinted that he had been at Baudelaire for a while, though Emma wasn’t brave enough to push the matter further. For the first time in a while, she had found someone to talk to, and she wasn’t about to compromise that for her own curiosity.

The day seemed to pass much more quickly with Killian for company and assistance, and it was with heavy heart that she locked up the greenhouse a few hours later. The sun was long set by the time she returned home that night, and Emma’s profuse apologies for her tardiness had barely left her mouth before Tink began waving them off. Neal had returned home not long after, frowning as he noticed the empty place settings as his wife rushed to finish up preparing the last of their supper.

They ate in relative silence, much as they always did, though Emma was surprised when Neal asked about her day. Had someone told him about her visitor? Emma shrugged off his comment, saying that it had been a day as normal as any other and mentioning that she would need more soil delivered to fill the new pots that had arrived that morning. Neal nodded, seeming to accept the answer. For some reason that Emma couldn’t quite pinpoint, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Killian. It wasn’t as though he was a secret, and they certainly hadn’t done anything remotely scandalous, but it still unnerved her. Neal had taken away so much of her life and privacy. Perhaps it was time to have something to herself. And if it didn’t hurt him, then what was the harm?

And so she had found herself almost jittery at the thought of seeing her secret friend the next day, waking up earlier than even Neal to prepare breakfast for herself and pack a lunch for herself and Neal. Neal had descended the stairs at his regular time, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he took in his wife in the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, taking his coffee and a pastry, and leaving with his briefcase. If Emma threw in an extra apple and pastry into her own lunch for her new assistant, then he didn’t have to know.


	2. Two

* * *

It was not as though Emma had expected him to be there again. After all, it wasn’t something they had agreed upon, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other things to do. He was a patient, she reminded herself on her walk over, which meant strict schedules of medication and supervision and God knew what else. Still, she couldn’t beat down the hope that swelled in her chest at the thought of his schedule possibly aligning with hers. It was a feeling that only seemed to bubble over into relief when she entered the glass room an hour later and found him waiting for her.

 

Killian was dressed in the same pale coloured outfit he had worn the day before, though Emma thought it looked like someone had attempted to brush his dark locks into something a bit more presentable. By the way a missed stray piece stuck up wildly in the back, Emma guessed it had been his own doing.

 

She hadn’t even realised she was grinning like a fool until he gave her a strange look.

 

“What?” He asked, the corners of his own lips turning up.

 

“Nothing,” she lied, letting out a long breath to settle her nerves. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

 

He quirked a dark eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes,” she replied innocently, shucking her jacket and tossing it on the workbench. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. It would be a shame for you to shirk your new duties as my assistant on the first day.”  

 

“Well, then, by all means,” he teased back. “Lead the way.”

 

They each chose a side of the room, sneaking glances at each other like schoolchildren as they raced to see how quickly each other could finish their pots. Try as she might, Emma’s hands never seemed to be quite as skilled as his, and he was nearly always a pot ahead of her, his fingers running through roots and soil as if he had been born with technique. If he had been, he was keeping mum about it.

 

With a bit of prodding, Emma managed to get a decent glimpse at his background, though she was sure that he was omitting just as much as he was telling. He had grown up in the northern provinces, he explained, and had become somewhat known as the local scoundrel of his home town. His father had abandoned the family when he had been an infant, never to be seen or heard from again. His mother had raised him and his brother, Liam, until she had passed away from illness when Killian was thirteen. He spoke fondly of his mother. She had owned the patisserie on the main street, and he recalled in vivid detail the time as a young boy when he had accidentally set fire to one of the ovens in his attempt to recreate one of her famous apple tarts. Emma was in stitches when he explained how he’d tried in vain to save the mini pastries, even as his mother had doused the flames with buckets of water. Emma made a verbal note to bring him her own special recipe one day, a promise which made his eyes light up in excitement.

 

By the time they finished their first set of pots, they were both covered in dirt and sweat, laughing and judging each other for the mess they had made in their sprint to outdo each other. Killian laughed at her insinuation that he had somehow managed to cheat, and Emma thought she had never heard a sound quite as charming in her life. She hadn’t known the man that long, but something told her that he did not often laugh as much as he did with her, and Emma felt victorious at having pulled one out of him.

 

He wasn’t a patient to her, no matter how much the hospital issued clothes dictated otherwise. How could he be, when his eyes were so clear and his wit as sharp as his mind? She hadn’t asked him what he had done to end up in the asylum, what malady plagued him when she wasn’t around, and truthfully, she didn’t know how she could even broach the subject. He hadn’t brought it up either, and every time he caught her eyes flicker to the ragged scar tissue that encircled his left wrist - surely from where a leather restraint had once rubbed his tender skin raw - he seemed to stiffen and roll down the cuffs of his sleeves to hide it from her.

 

And, truth be told, Emma was certain that she wasn’t just another worker at the facility to him, either. He had never been awkward around her, but even so he seemed to relax further and further into his role as her assistant. They flitted around each other as they worked, their rhythm like a well oiled machine. He shared simple stories with ease, complaining of the meals at the facility and expressing his wish for some “bloody decent food, already”. He nearly began salivating when she opened up her bag to reveal the pastry and fruit she had brought for him, and she had to playfully remind him not to try to swallow them whole. As it was, he finished off the small meal in record time, moaning almost sinfully as he finished each bite. She would recall that sound later - a blush colouring her cheeks - when she laid her house keys down next to the ceramic bowl of fresh apples that Tink had fetched from the market as a surprise.

 

They only grew closer over the next few days as their routine became even more fine tuned. Emma woke up early each morning and made her way over to the greenhouse, where Killian was always waiting, their work tables already set. After the success she had had with the first treat, Emma had taken to packing a second lunch to give her assistant, whose eyes never ceased to widen in amazement at the gesture. She’d teased him about it once, but he’d simply shrugged. “You can’t take anything for granted,” he’d explained, “especially in a place like this.”

 

He asked plenty of questions about her life outside of the facility, something she had anticipated but somehow had failed to prepare for all the same. She fielded his curiosity as best as she could, giving vague answers to questions that normally would be considered harmless. But of course, with someone with Emma’s past, no question was entirely harmless. Killian seemed to sense her hesitation when he asked about her family and her upbringing, and a slight sadness filled his blue eyes. But given the holes in his own personal history, Emma was certain he understood her need to keep private things private, and he never pushed. It was a welcome relief; most people never learned to reign in their questioning, and it usually resulted in Emma pulling away. And she didn’t want a reason to pull away from him.

 

This fall morning, as they worked together to prepare the greenhouse for the end of autumn, Killian had chosen to direct his questioning elsewhere. Well, _everywhere_ , really. Having not seen a newspaper or magazine in what appeared to be years, he wanted to know everything that had happened in the world recently. The trees outside the windows filling with vibrant colour, signalling the change of the earth around him, and Killian was adamant that he would not go another year without learning _something_ of the outside world. Politics, celebrity scandals, natural disasters. Then he wanted to know every song that was playing on the radio - every song that she liked. She’d had to think about that one, but settled on a small handful of tunes that she had heard over the kitchen radio while preparing dinner the night before. She’d listed the names, but Killian had only stared blankly. Of course, she hadn’t expected him to know them.

 

“Would you sing them for me?”

 

The question caught her off guard and she turned to raise her eyebrows at him. “Not in a million years.”

 

“How am I supposed to truly know the song if you don’t sing it for me?” He argued, leaning against the table top to watch her as he so often did.

 

Emma rolled her eyes. “Use your imagination!”

 

She might have let things go at that, if she hadn’t made the fatal mistake of glancing up at him again. Killian’s blue eyes had gone wide as a puppy dog’s, his bottom lip jutting out just so. He looked sad and pitiful, and somehow still absolutely gorgeous. A dirty trick, to be sure.

 

She caved.

 

His face had shown no signs of recognition when she’d mentioned Francoise Hardy, so she chose the rectify that first. She began with _La Fin De L’Été_ , given the changing seasons outside and the fact that it was slow and she happened to remember the words.  

 

She fixed her eyes on her work as she sang, hoping desperately that he couldn’t see her quickly reddening cheeks. It wasn’t that she considered herself necessarily a poor singer, but she had certainly never had an audience before.  The only person she had sang for in years was Henry, and he was hardly a harsh critic. But by the way the greenhouse had fallen dead silent, she knew that Killian was listening intently. More words turned into vague hums as her nerves creeped into her voice.

 

She nearly jumped when she felt a soft hand on her arm, her words stopping suddenly. Emma finally met his eyes - he looked almost awestruck. Just as Emma began to think she might melt into a puddle under his gaze, Killian offered her his hand and lead her away from the workbench. He stopped at a relatively clear spot on the floor, motioning her closer as he placed his free hand on her hip. Caught up to his intent, Emma placed a hand on his shoulder and took up the song again, her voice steadier as they began to sway to the melody.  

 

As it turned out, Killian was a terrible dancer. Even with the slow pace, his feet struggled to keep up with the rest of his body. Emma couldn’t help but giggle as he pinched her toes under his feet for the second time in nearly as many seconds, but he only made a face at her. The rest of the song passed in a haze as they moved together across the tile floor. Emma was sure Killian could hear her heart racing in her chest, and she had to remind herself to breathe as he released her only long enough to gently twirl her in his arms.

 

“ _Though I love life,_

_And I believe it is beautiful,_

_I can love the rain,_

_As much as the sun,_

_Day and night,_

_Dream under all the skies,_ ”

 

She wasn’t sure what compelled her to pick the next song, but the words began to flow from her mouth before she could stop them. Just as the one before, the song was slow and graceful, the melody sweet and mournful.

 

“ _But there are nights,_

_Where it is not enough,_

_And they are all the nights,_

_Where I think of you_ ,”

 

She felt him stiffen in her arms, his breathing close against her ear as he listened. He didn’t pull away, didn’t ask her to stop. He just listened. So she continued.

 

“ _While I like very much,_

_Everything, as everything is mysterious to me,_

_The city and the times,_

_Noise and light,_

_Trees, flowers, wind,_

_Infinity and the sea_ ,”

 

His eyes had closed at the words, his face soft as the song pulled him into memories that she was not privy to. She felt his grip on her waist tighten a fraction as he bowed his head against hers. It was only a song. Words written by someone else, likely for someone else. It shouldn’t have meant anything to the pair as they swayed in spot, their foreheads touching, soothing hands grounding each other to the earth.

 

_“But there are evenings,_

_Where I do not think of them,_

_And they are the nights,_

_Where I hurt you_ ,”   

 

Emma closed her eyes then, not wanting to see the emotion that would surely flicker across his face at the words. She didn’t need to look far to see how much he had been hurt in his life, how he continued to be confined like a caged bird in the facility owned by her husband. He might not have known how much his fate rested in the hands of the man she returned to at night, but Emma did, and the guilt was almost enough to make her choke on the rest of the song.

 

It was almost unthinkable that she would return home at night to a warm bed and he would be confined to his rooms once more. Emma might not have been a doctor, but she couldn’t see any reason for him being at Baudelaire. He was as clever, kind, and witty as anyone she had ever met outside of the facility’s walls. Someone as handsome and caring as Killian wouldn’t have any trouble finding a wife, perhaps having some children, and growing old in the comfort in a home of his own choosing. He deserved to relax by a roaring hearth with a thick book and a mug of hot coffee just as much as she did. She ached for her friend and for all of all the simple comforts he was being deprived of.

 

_Not ‘friend’_ , a more salacious part of her mind whispered.

 

No one yearned for the company of a ‘friend’ the way she did with Killian. And no ‘friend’ would return her doe-eyed looks with the depth of affection he did. It wasn’t his fault, either. There was no way for him to know that she was already betrothed to another, and truthfully, _selfishly_ , she didn’t want him to know. For the first time in a long time, Emma was _happy_. She slept well in the hours after her son had been put down for the night, felt less lonely in the early mornings before Neal awoke.

 

Perhaps in another life, Emma could have met Killian under other circumstances, and they might have both found happiness sooner. Perhaps together.

 

She pushed the thought aside.

 

It was a breach of trust, one that she knew might be nearly unforgivable, but she had to know what it was that kept him here.

 

So it was a week later when Emma finally swallowed down the guilt and voices that screamed at her to let it go and cornered the brunette receptionist during her lunch break. She had spoken to her a few times and had learned that the young French woman was the eyes and ears of Baudelaire. She knew every nook and cranny of the entire facility, as well as the patient records of every individual registered there. Whatever it was that Killian thought was too terrible to share with her, Ruby would know.

 

“How have you been liking it here so far?”

 

“It’s lovely,” Emma answered simply, not keen on sharing the truth about her thoughts on the place. It wouldn’t do much good to tell the woman how much she despised every hour that she spent in the little cottage after Henry had been put to bed. Being alone with her thoughts had never been something she was good at, and Neal never seemed to fill in the silence with anything but thin words and frustrated demands. It was during those times that she missed her safe haven the most. When she missed _him_.

 

“The nurses told me you’ve made a friend,” Ruby mentioned suddenly, her eyes full of mischief. Of course. Ruby knew everything. Well, at least it would make Emma’s job easier.

 

“Yes, Killian Jones. He helps me in the greenhouse some days.”

 

“Every day,” Ruby corrected, sipping her coffee.

 

“Is there a reason he shouldn’t?” It was as open ended of a question as she could manage, hoping that Ruby would take the opportunity to share.  She didn’t disappoint.

 

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted. “As far as I can tell, he’s not dangerous.”

 

Emma’s mouth turned down in confusion. “As far as you can tell?”

 

“Truth be told, I don’t know why he’s here. I do know he’s been here for years though. The old director overhauled the entire staff a few years back, and when the new girls were brought in he was here.”

 

That was curious. Emma had known that Killian had been in the institution for a while - the long healed over scars were proof of that - but she hadn’t expected his reputation to be blank. Surely someone who had been confined for so long had a reason for being there.

 

“Anyways, he’s lucky to have you,” Ruby continued, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re good for him, I think.”

 

Emma blushed. “I’m sure that’s not true. He’s a friendly man. I’m sure he gets along with everyone well.”

 

Ruby shrugged. “Wouldn’t know, to be honest. He’s been in solitary until last week.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Ruby hummed, taking another sip of her coffee.

 

“I think you’re the first real person he’s spoken to in years. We got a transfer of a new patient from the city recently and we needed the room, so Jones was released into the general rooms.” Ruby wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Awful man, the new one. None of the nurses want to go near him. I had to convince Anna to go in and change his sheets yesterday, and that was only after I promised that he would be off with doctor Whale during that time.”

 

Emma barely listened as the receptionist rambled on about the new patient - a man by the name of Walsh. The sordid details of the grotesque behaviours that had landed him at Baudelaire were not half as astonishing as the information she had just come to learn, and Emma struggled to manage more than a polite nod or hum when she thought appropriate.

 

Killian had been in solitary? It didn’t make sense. Emma thought back to every conversation she had ever had with him, remembering how softly he had handled every flower, and the sense of calm that seemed to wash over the room whenever he entered. Emma was sure there wasn’t a cruel bone in the man’s entire body, let alone a darkness that warranted hours of dark, damp solitude. It wasn’t fair. There had to be something she was missing.

 

Ruby was halfway through explaining something about a new male nurse who had been hired when Emma interrupted, unable to help herself.

 

“Is he on any medication?”

 

Ruby’s eyes widened in confusion. “Who? Walsh? I doubt it. Though I wouldn’t complain if someone put a bit of something in his next batch of coffee, the ass-”

 

“No. Killian.”

 

A look of understanding crossed the receptionist's face. “Oh. Well, technically, yes. But…” Ruby chewed on the inside of her cheek as she considered something, her eyes searching the blonds'. “He is supposed to be, yes, but I happen to know that he hasn’t been taking them.”

 

“He’s not been taking them?”

 

“I know the nurse that is assigned to him, and she told me she found one of the tablets half-dissolved in the sink after her round. I don’t think she told anyone but me.”

 

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

 

Ruby shrugged. “She only told me yesterday, and I have a feeling that he’s been doing it for a while. He doesn’t have the same look about him that everyone else here does. Like he’s..”

 

“Hollow,” Emma finished for her.

 

She knew the look. Every patient she had come across, as fleeting as her encounters had been, had given her the same stony look, as if they weren’t quite sure where they were. She had always looked away, not wanting to see the pain behind their eyes. Even their shadows seemed a bit darker than everyone else’s, as if they too carried baggage unseen to the world. Emma was no doctor, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if the doctors weren’t a bit too eager to pump medication into their patients at the first instant of trouble. She had seen in the paper how the doctors in the big cities had been advocating for behavioural therapies and more forgiving treatments, but those practices had not yet reached the outer circles of society.  

 

Emma had no way to be sure, but something told her that Ruby had read the same article, and was using her silence to instigate her own little medical revolution within the facility. A clever woman indeed.

 

Ruby finished up the last of her coffee, giving Emma a quick hug before disappearing back inside. Emma felt better having talked to her, even if she hadn’t learned as much as she would have liked. The receptionist was easily making her way up the list of friends she could count on in the facility, and she felt all the luckier to have her.

 

Still, it seemed that the only way that she was going to learn anything about Killian Jones would be to ask him herself. She paced that night, trying to find the right way to ask that wouldn’t send him disappearing behind his walls. By the time the grandfather clock tolled at midnight, she still had nothing, and instead fell into a restless sleep.

 

 


	3. Three

* * *

 

 

It was a bit harder to drag herself out of bed the next day, her nerves getting the better of her. Damn her insatiable curiosity. Why couldn’t she just let things be?

 

Killian must have noticed her anxious mood when she entered that morning, his eyes roving over her with mild concern. Which was exactly her point - someone that perceptive had _no_ business being locked away for years on end, especially in solitary. Even Neal hadn’t noticed her mood that morning.

 

“Everything alright, Swan?”

 

Emma froze, her eyebrows raising in surprise. She hadn’t heard her maiden name spoken in so long, and there was no way that anyone here would have ever used it.

 

“I’m sorry?” She stammered out.

 

Killian flushed, but waved his fingers toward her neck. “Your pendant. You wear it every day and it just seemed fitting.”

 

Emma’s fingers went straight to the small silver swan that hung around her neck. Her mother had given it to her when she was a baby. At least, she thought she had. The ladies at the first orphanage she had been placed in when she was an infant hadn’t been able to recall exactly where it had come from, only that it had been found clutched in her tiny infant fist a few days after they’d found her on the side of the road nearest to the monastery. Emma was sure that if anyone else had found her, they would have kept the trinket, but Mother Superior had kept it safe for her until she had been old enough to wear it.

 

“Thank you,” Emma finally said, regaining her voice. She wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for exactly, but it seemed the right thing to say. Killian seemed to notice the emotion raging inside her, but said nothing.

 

“What is on the schedule for today?” He asked instead, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

 

“I thought we would start with the petunias. Is that alright?”

 

Killian nodded and moved to pick up the spade from the worktable. It was almost second nature now, them working side by side, talking and joking around with each other. The dancing had been given up after they’d accidentally bumped another pot onto the floor - Killian’s fault, Emma had insisted, even if he rightfully claimed the opposite - but Killian had since revealed his own talented voice and would often sing for her as they worked.

 

As Emma stepped into her role as gardener, picking up the sacks of seeds from where they were stashed in the corner, she almost felt guilty for ruining it with her questions. But she had waited long enough. Perhaps it would be better to simply get the words out.

 

“Why did you not begin working in the greenhouse before?” She asked simply, keeping her eyes on her work. Even in her periphery, she noticed how Killian’s shoulders seemed to tense at the question.

 

“Are you trying to flatter me with compliments of my gardening skill?” His tone was likely meant to be teasing, but she could sense the strain behind it.

 

“You do have a green thumb,” Emma admitted, shrugging as though he weren’t brushing off her questions. “I am just curious as to why you waited so long.”

 

“You’re awfully curious all of a sudden.”

 

“Is that so wrong? To be curious about my new friend?”

 

“No, I suppose not,” he admitted slowly. He seemed to relax a bit, his focus returning to his work, though she didn’t miss how his mouth turn turn slightly at her use of ‘friend’. _Good_ , said a more selfish portion of her mind. She beat it down.

 

Emma almost considered letting it go, but she still hadn’t learned anything new.

 

“It’s because they put you in solitary, isn’t it?”

 

She hadn’t so much asked as blurted it out, but it was too late to take it back. It was enough to regain his attention.

 

“You’ve been asking about me,” he accused, turning to face her, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He was angry.

 

“I just wanted to -”

 

“You just wanted to snoop,” he snapped.

 

“That’s not true. I was worried. _About you_.”

 

Killian smirked, his glare piercing. “Oh, I’m sure. Worried that the mental patient might attack you, is that it? Worried that I might one day snap and harm you.”

 

“That’s not fair!”  

 

They were both practically screaming at this point, and Emma was sure that a nurse would soon appear if they didn’t quiet down. Killian, on the other hand, was too lost in his own rage and hurt to notice.

 

“No, what’s not fair is that I never once gave you any reason to distrust me! I have never lied to you!”

 

“Don’t you understand? I _know_ that!”

 

That silenced him, although his glare remained. “What do you mean?”

 

Emma huffed in annoyance. This was not how this was supposed to happen.

 

“I know you’re not dangerous,” she began, her voice calmer than it had been. “That’s precisely my point. Why are you here? What happened?”

 

His face seemed to soften at her words, though he was now glaring out the window. He removed a hand from where it had been clutching his bicep to rub his palm across his face. Emma stepped closer, placing a soothing hand on his arm, trying to catch his gaze.

 

“I’m pretty good at figuring out when something isn’t right. And this?” She gestured vaguely at his hospital garb. “Something is definitely wrong here.”

 

He looked at her then. Really looked, as though he were deciding whether to confess his sins or bolt out the doors and disappear forever. Emma could pinpoint the moment he seemed to decide on the former, a deep sigh escaping his chest as he led her to the work bench. He sat down next to her, pursing his lips as he contemplated how to begin.

 

“I used to be a gardener here,” he finally said.

 

Emma blinked. She hadn’t expected that. For what it was worth, her stunned reaction seemed to bring a small smile to his face.

 

“What? Does that surprise you?” He asked in mocked offence.

 

“No,” Emma almost laughed. “Truthfully, I’m surprised I didn’t consider that before.”

 

“Not everyone is as easy to read as you are,” he teased.

 

“I am not!”

 

“You’re a bit of an open book, love.”

 

Emma waved him off. “Alright, then tell me. How does a gardener find himself locked in as a patient in Baudelaire?”

 

Killian’s teasing smile wavered, and uncertainty returned to his baby blue eyes.

 

“He falls in love with the director’s wife.”

 

Emma could have sworn that her heart stopped dead in her chest. Fallen in love with _her_? It couldn’t be. He couldn’t know. She wasn’t so lucky.

 

“What?” She finally managed out, though it was so quiet she wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her. Killian noted the look of shock on her face, and his own face turned grim.

 

“Her name was Milah, and she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met.”

 

If the first confession had stopped her heart, the second squeezed it so tight that Emma was sure it had been crushed into dust. Of course it wouldn’t have been _her_. She shouldn’t have been surprised, and she surely shouldn’t feel the spike of jealousy that coursed through her veins at his words. It wasn’t right. Emma had to force herself to focus as he continued.

 

“I used to see her in the hallways between my shifts. I knew who she was - I’d seen her with Gold when he first brought her to the facility. But I was young and infatuated, so when she began inviting me to her home for tea when her husband wasn’t home, I went. We started seeing each other in secret not long after that. I should have known better, but I didn’t.”

 

Killian’s eyes darkened as he seemed to be dragged into old memories. Without thinking, Emma placed her hand on his leg. It seemed to do the trick; he returned the gesture with a sad smile before continuing.

 

“She was his second wife; they married after Gold’s first wife had died a few years prior. Gold’s son from his first marriage is the current director, did you know?”

 

Emma nodded silently, swallowing down her own confession.

 

“I’m sure now that she was only after Gold’s money, but at the time she’d told me that she was unhappy with her marriage with Gold. There was quite an age gap between them, and Milah said she felt as though her youth was being wasted on the old man.”

 

“And you were her saviour,” Emma concluded out loud. Killian nodded.

 

“I suggested that we run away together. I had an entire plan set out, had my bags packed and everything. And when I showed up at her house one night, ready to disappear with her, I thought I was quite the hero.” His tone turned bitter, and Emma’s heart ached for young Killian. She could imagine him as the dashing hero, believing himself the rescuer of a young maiden. It was something that she was sure was ingrained in him as finely as breathing.

 

“She wasn’t there?” Emma asked, already dreading the answer. Killian laughed humorlessly.

 

“Oh, she was there. As was her husband. He called the police and they took me away in handcuffs. I was livid. I kept screaming that I was better for her than he was, that she had been practically begging me to take her away. As it turns out, Milah had a very different story.”

 

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on her. “Gold got to her first.”

 

Killian shrugged. “Either that, or she’d never actually meant any of it to begin with.”

 

Emma couldn’t imagine anyone being that cruel. Neal had never mentioned a step-mother before, and the more Killian spoke about her, the more she began to understand why. The woman was clearly undeserving of the maternal title.

 

“Anyways,” he continued, “she told the officers that she had no idea what I was on about, and that I’d been stalking her for months. That I was some silly little puppy dog that had become obsessed with her. Gold did the assessment personally and determined that I was delusional and a danger, and that I ought to be locked up.”

 

Emma’s eyes widened in shock. “Gold _believed_ her?”

 

Killian only shrugged. “People believe what they want to believe. I’m sure he had his suspicions. Maybe that’s why he never left her. He gave her everything after he died - well, almost everything. The facility went to his son, of course. Milah disappeared along with his money not long after.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I’d been in solitary ever since.” He laughed then, a small sound that made her jump nonetheless.

 

“What?”

 

He smiled, his expression light despite the horror he’s just described. “Nothing. Only that it seems that everything has changed for the better since you arrived.”

 

Despite the kind words, Emma’s felt almost sick. Her husband’s family had locked him up in petty jealousy over a woman that deserved no one’s tears. It wasn’t fair.

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though for what, she wasn’t entirely sure.

 

He laughed again, and the sound should have brought butterflies to her stomach. “What ever for, Swan? It isn’t your fault.”

 

 _For everything_ , she supposed.

 

“For the injustice of it all,” she replied instead. “You didn’t deserve that.”

 

“I made my peace with it.”

 

“You shouldn’t need to,” she countered.

 

“Sometimes it’s the only option for going forward.”

 

Of course he had somehow found solace in what had happened. She had sensed his resilience from the beginning, though she had never know exactly how much he had had to overcome. He was a good man - possibly the best she had ever come to know.

 

But there was still an anvil that weighed on her chest. There was another question that she needed an answer to, one that left her angry with herself for even wanted to know to answer to, one that she had no business asking. The answer meant more to her than it should, but there was no denying it anymore. She had to know.

 

“Do you still love her?”

 

It had been barely a whisper, but to her own ears, it had sounded like a scream. She was sure he could see the emotion written across her face - being the open book that she was to him. The words were practically scrawled in the air between them.

 

_Hope, longing, desire, want._

 

She thought she had sensed the same from him over the past few weeks together, but she had been too afraid to put the words to them. Had been too afraid of what that would mean. Had been too certain that he could never understand the pain that had tainted every relationship she had ever been in. How could she expect anyone to understand how her mistakes had forced her to distrust anyone who got too close?

 

Everyone except for Killian Jones. It had only been a matter of weeks, but she was certain now that no one would ever know her better.

 

“I haven’t felt that way - felt _love_ \- in a long time. I never thought I would again,” he admitted, his voice growing huskier with emotion. “Until I met you.”

 

Emma’s breath hitched, her heart battering wildly in her chest.

 

“And,” he continued, his fingers dropping to intertwine with hers where they rested on his leg. “I think perhaps you might feel the same?”

 

There was a hint of nervousness underlying the confident gesture, and Emma knew the risk he was taking, even if he didn’t. He had been hurt by a woman who had all the same history that Emma did, who had likely made all the same promises that Emma would, and had been burned. Badly. He had every reason to be cautious with his heart, and Emma would make sure she would never abuse his trust as Milah had. She would have to tell him the truth, and hope that he would still accept her afterwards. Perhaps, just this once, it was worth the risk. _He_ was worth the risk.

 

“Oh!”

 

The surprised yelp came from a young blond nurse, whose eyes flickered between the two, noticing how close they sat together on the narrow bench. She cleared her throat, fixing her nervous eyes on Emma.

 

“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Cassidy, but I’m afraid it’s time for Mr. Jones’ medication.”

 

_No._

 

The electricity that had been building between them flickered out in an instant, and Killian’s hand recoiled from hers as if it had been burned.

 

_Mrs. Cassidy._

 

Emma had turned to face the door the moment their intruder had made their presence known, but she could feel Killian’s eyes boring into the side of her head.

 

_Mrs. Cassidy._

 

His thigh was like rock beneath her palm, and Emma was sure that if he were capable, he would have dashed off inside. As it was, he seemed to be frozen in his seat.

 

“May we have a moment?” Emma asked politely, desperately wishing for Killian to remain in his shock long enough to explain everything.

 

“Uh - well, Mrs. - he really needs -”

 

“He won’t be but a moment,” Emma insisted, giving the nurse a tight smile. “I’ll send him out in a minute.”

 

“Oh - okay.” With that the nurse disappeared inside, her mind likely whirling with theories and assumptions. Not all of which would be entirely wrong.

 

Emma turned back to Killian to find him staring at her in what could only be fear and apprehension. She couldn’t blame him - he had just laid his heart before her and she had revealed herself to be married to the son of his enemy. She had to fix this.

 

Oh god, she couldn’t lose him.

 

“Please, Killian. I know what you’re thinking-”

 

“I very much doubt that you do,” he whispered. The confidence he had displayed only minutes ago had evaporated into nothing. She raised a hand to his cheek, hoping that the action would bring him back to himself, but she cringed as the motion only seemed to make him flinch. She retracted, letting her hands drop to her lap as her heart tumbled into her stomach.  

 

“Please,” she started again lowly, her voice wavering. “It’s not as simple as that.”

 

For the second time that day, Emma felt the questioning being turned back on her.

 

“It’s not as simple as you being married to Neal Cassidy?” He seemed to be thawing from his shock, though the resigned heartbreak that was taking its place hurt almost worse than any anger he could have displayed.

 

“I know. And it’s true. I am. But,” she continued hurriedly, as he began to shake his head in disbelief, his emotions in turmoil. “It’s not as simple as that.”

 

“How is it not that simple?” He snapped.

 

“I thought you of all people would understand that part.”

 

Comprehension dawn on his features, and for the first time since the nurse had arrived, Emma thought he wasn’t about to bolt.

 

“I know this isn’t what you were… expecting,” she continued slowly, conscious of the fact that the nurse could return at any moment. “But please, just… come back tomorrow? I swear, I’ll explain everything.”

 

He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes as he rose from the bench and moved to find the nurse. Emma could only hope that her words had meant something to him, that he would recognise the sincerity in her words and be there to meet her tomorrow morning as he always had. As though nothing had changed, when, in fact, _everything_ had. The fact that she couldn’t be certain terrified her. He had shared so much of himself, and all he had learned about her was how much she had betrayed him. She couldn’t leave it like that.

 

She stood quickly, calling out to him before he could walk out - possibly forever. His steps faltered by the door, and he turned just enough to indicate that he was listening.

 

“Before. What you said about my feelings. For you.” She took a breath, steadying herself for the repercussions that were likely to result from her next words. “You aren’t wrong.”

 

She wished she could have seen the look on his face as he disappeared through the door. Maybe he had smiled, hope in his eyes as he turned his back on her and followed the nurse to his room. Or maybe he had been more of a grimace, his eyes grey with disappointment.

 

Either way, Emma had been nothing short of devastated when she’d arrived the next day to find the greenhouse empty. She had attempted to complete the short list of tasks that she had planned for the day, though the work had doubled without her partner there to help. She’d finally given up in the early afternoon and returned home early, surprising Tink. The nursemaid had kindly offered to stay longer to help prepare dinner as she always had, but Emma had politely declined. She’d wanted nothing more than to be alone with her son.

 

At least for a few hours, Henry’s presence had soothed the ache in her heart. It seemed that every watery smile and coo Henry gifted her was a pure attempt to bring a smile to his mother’s face, and Emma had returned each one with an abundance of kisses. But, as always, the sun eventually set and Emma had had to bid farewell to her first love, tucking him in his favourite blanket and promising to love him to the moon and back. He’d fallen into a swift slumber, his little fists clenched by his head.

 

Emma crawled into the cold sheets of her own bed not long after. All pretenses of waiting up for her husband had been dropped days ago, though Neal hadn’t seemed to care. He still made the occasional move when he came home after a night on the town with the doctors, but he’d always become too bothered by her cold shoulder to pursue it further than light touches. Perhaps that night, he would blame the howling wind outside as the reason for not recognising her sniffles as he crawled in beside her.


	4. Four

* * *

 

It would only take someone like Neal not to notice the change in her mood after that. Granted, it had taken two days for Tink to notice, though she likely would have picked up on the change the first day if Henry hadn’t chosen her arrival that morning as the moment to swipe his breakfast plate off of his high chair and onto the floor. The nursemaid had immediately sprung into action, grabbing a towel from the kitchen and making to clean up the mess, leaving Emma to slip out the front door with a quick goodbye. At the time, Emma had felt some guilt at having left in such a hurry, but if it meant postponing the look of pity that she would receive the following days, it had been worth it.

 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t had Henry to cover for her when Ruby had confronted her at lunch that day. The sharp receptionist had zeroed in on her when she’d gone to lunch on the bench in the gardens, and it hadn’t taken her long to declare that a petite blond nurse had gossipped in her ear. Emma had tried to wave it off, but Ruby had been adamant. They were friends now, she’d argued. Emma had caved then, and once the words were out, she’d found it hard to stop. She was close to tears by the time she’d finished, Ruby having waited quietly and patiently throughout the entire tale. Emma hadn’t been sure what outcome scared her most; that Ruby would judge her for having feelings for a man when she was so clearly married to someone else, or that she would chastise her for having given him up.

 

But Ruby had done neither, and had simply held her while she’d cried. When she’d run out of tears, Ruby had suggested that she go home and rest, but Emma had refused. If she left, she wasn’t certain she’d ever go back, and she couldn’t bear the thought of letting the garden return to ruins. So she’d returned to the greenhouse, eyes red rimmed, until the sun had begun to set.

 

Such was the new pattern that she fell into; working in the greenhouse alone in the mornings, lunching with Ruby during her breaks, and returning to the house in the afternoon to see Henry. It became easier as the days passed to forget that there had been a time when she’d had an assistant as she’d worked each morning, though there were still days when she’d turn to ask her partner a question about a certain plant or tool, only to find the table next to hers vacant. Those days were the hardest.

 

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask Ruby about her former companion, and Ruby was clever enough not to bring up the subject. Instead, Ruby spent most of their hours together recounting tales of her childhood, and delighting her friend with funny anecdotes about the facility’s history. Emma came to learn that Ruby had chosen to become a nurse after her grandmother had fallen ill, though it hadn’t mattered - the old woman was apparently as resilient as she was stubborn and had recovered not long after. Choosing to stay close to her anyways, Ruby had found her place at Baudelaire and had quickly risen through the ranks to become the head receptionist and foremost knowledge on the building. She had earned the trust and respect of every member of staff and patient there - and rightly so, Emma thought.

 

Still, even with her new found friendship with Ruby and her peaceful afternoons with her son, Emma couldn’t help but feel as though she was missing something. A ‘something’ that she hadn’t so much as lost as pushed away.

 

And, as the days began to blur into one another, a ‘something’ that she became more sure was never coming back.

 

There was nothing special about the morning until she entered the greenhouse to find Killian standing there. The initial sleepless night had turned out to be the first of many, and for a moment, Emma thought she was hallucinating. He was leaning against the workbench, one of the apple pastries she had baked the day before half-eaten in his hand, looking devilishly handsome, but as though he, too, hadn’t slept in weeks. Not a dream then - she could have never imagined him looking so rough. He’d stood up straighter when he’d spotted her, pastry still in hand.

 

She was still gaping when he finally addressed her, though he seemed to talk only to break the silence. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was nervous. The sound of his familiar baritone was still enough to cause her heart to swell.

 

“Are these your famous apple tarts?” He asked casually, taking another mouthful as though he’d never gone.

 

“Y-yes,” she stuttered out, answering more on reflex than anything. “I made them just in case…”

 

She choked on the end of that thought. Unable to sleep, she’d woken up early the other day and had baked them to distract herself from her bad mood. She’d brought them along when she’d gone to the greenhouse, just in case… But he hadn’t come, and the tarts had been left to cool on the workbench when she’d left a few hours later.

 

Killian hummed in appreciation. “They’re very good. Comparable to my mother’s, I dare say.”

 

“They were better yesterday.”

 

“I’m sorry to have missed them.”

 

He _was_ sorry - she could hear it in the way the bravado left his voice and his words cracked. Perhaps that was what did her in, what broke through the barrier she’d begun building around her heart over the past few days, but a moment later she was crying, a string of apologies rushing from her lips as he stepped forward to wrap his arms around her in a soothing embrace.

 

They stood there for a long moment, her sobs mixing with his hushes and words of reassurances. He tried to explain and apologize for his behaviour, but it hadn’t helped soothe her much. She didn’t want to hear about how upset he had been, or how he’d cried himself to sleep on his cot each night just as she had. She didn’t want to hear about how he’d tried to work up the nerve to go back to her, to beg her for her forgiveness until he was blue in the face, and how he’d become convinced that Emma would have moved on without him in his absence. In the end, it had been Ruby that had finally taken him from his room and given him a good strip down for his sulking. Through her scolding, Killian had gathered that Emma hadn’t lost hope in him, and was likely as miserable as he was. He’d made the decision to return to her in that moment.

 

She thought she could feel his hand rubbing soft circles on her back, trying to calm her, but she was trembling too much to be sure.

 

 _He’d come back_.

 

She must have muttered the thought out loud, because she felt him snort a laugh into her hair.

 

“Well, if I’d known I’d be missing out on those wonderful pastries…”

 

Emma erupted into a giddy mess of laughter as she finally found the strength to disentangle herself from his arms, wiping the tears from her eyes. Killian used his thin sleeve to dispel of a stray drop that had escaped down her cheek, his limited wardrobe not allowing for things like handkerchiefs.

 

“Now, Miss _Swan_ ,” he began, his signature, mischievous smile returning to grace his features. “Shall we see what you’ve managed since I’ve been gone?”

 

Emma beamed at the nickname. “I think you’ll find I’ve done quite well, even without my best assistant, Mr. Jones.”

 

“I have no doubt. Though the petunias look a bit...” He was cut off by Emma’s mock glare, and he raised his hands in surrender.  

 

It was much easier than she’d expected to get back into her routine with Killian by her side. Once the horrible nerves and apologies had faded away, the rest of it came back easy enough. They talked, chatted away about anything and everything, and teased each other about their progress. Killian noted that Emma had gained some speed, and that she could nearly pot plants as quickly as he did. _Almost_ , of course.

 

Much to Emma’s surprise, Killian asked about Neal as well. At first she was hesitant, afraid that her answers would only reopen fresh wounds, but she gradually opened up once it was clear that Killian was simply showing genuine curiosity. He wanted to know what he was like, how they had met, when they had married. Those questions were harder to talk about - she hated admitting that Neal had been a one night stand gone wrong, especially to Killian. But he didn’t seem to hold any judgement, simply nodding along, lips pursed, as she explained how she had fallen pregnant the night the well dressed physician in training had accosted her at the bar in her hometown. She hadn’t known at the time that Neal came from money, and she hadn’t cared much for that fact later that month when she’d tracked him down to tell him the news. But Neal had come to his own conclusions early on, raging and spitting lies about how she had deceived him for his status. That had been complete idiocy in his part - Neal’s biological mother had insisted that her son take her maiden name when he was born, to give him his own path in life. From what Emma had gathered, Belle had been a kind mother, full of hope for her son while being acutely aware of her husband’s growing lust for power. Robert Gold had obliged, much as he had to everything his late wife had requested of him. Neal had finally calmed down and had eventually accepted that he hadn’t been played for money, but the episode had only paved the way for future arguments later on.

 

But if Neal had been upset, his father had been livid. She hadn’t been in the room when Neal had made the phone call, but when he’d approached her later that evening with a marriage proposal, his face was paler than the new moon. Emma had been surprised at the offer - she had been willing to settle for a small purse to help her raise the baby long after he’d gone, but the idea of her child having a father as well had been tempting. It was more than she had ever been granted herself.

 

They hadn’t expected to moved to the French countryside so soon. Under the guise of providing a wedding gift to his son, Gold had arranged to have a cottage built on the grounds of his asylum. Emma suspected Neal knew as much as she did that it was simply a cover to keep Neal close and out of further trouble. She had never managed to find out for sure, though - Gold had passed away only a few months before they had been expected to move in. The move in plans had necessarily been pushed forward, and Neal had been summoned to arrive as soon as possible to take his father’s place. Everything had just happened so fast then. Emma wasn’t sure she’d had a chance to take it all in yet.

 

At some point during her story, they had given up working, and were lounging on the same workbench where everything had gone wrong all those weeks ago. She never thought she’d be sitting like this with him again, talking so casually about life. Of missed hopes and dreams. He was already more patient than Neal had ever been, and perhaps it was because he could sense how much she needed to vent her feelings, but Emma rather thought it was because he wanted to know. He wanted to know her. It was definitely a first.

 

And as they sat facing each other, Emma couldn’t help but notice how easy their touches had become. She’d barely blinked when Killian had picked up her hand and had begun rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Every swipe of his finger over her skin sent a wave of calm over her, and she found it easier and easier to speak to him about her spotted past.

 

Killian changed the topic not long after that, moving away from Neal and focusing instead on her son. _That_ request, Emma would happily oblige. Henry had been the single most light of her life since his birth, the only thing that had kept her sane throughout the nonsense. The smile he gave her when she talked about Henry’s first footsteps, and how his first words had been mama during a routine bath one evening. Killian didn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that she had a child - if anything, his gazes became more loving.

 

Whatever wrongs she had suffered in her life, she was almost willing to pardon them all for having met Killian Jones.

 

When darkness descended upon the small glass room, Emma almost didn’t want to leave. It was only when Killian reassured her that he would be there the next morning that she finally agreed to go. Though, she nearly changed her mind right then and there when he bent down to kiss her as he made to leave. It was sudden - clearly an act build out of nerves - but Emma had kissed him back in equal measure. She couldn’t find it in herself to care about anything else in that moment. How could she when Killian was holding her head _just_ _so_ , and how her own fingers seemed to find their grip so easily in his short dark hair?

 

When she’s finally pulled away, it was only because her mind was all too aware of the young toddler who was waiting at home for her. She would go to him now, run him his bath, and prepare him for bed as usual. Though maybe - just for tonight - his bedtime story would involve a certain blue eyed gentleman who slept only a half a mile away.

 

\--

 

The work to keep the greenhouse in order became a challenge when the snow finally began to descend on the small village a few months later. The narrow river that weaved between the hills and along the main avenue had frozen over almost entirely, and the sudden stillness seemed to drag the rest of the world to a stop with it. The already quiet village fell to near silence as residents rarely ventured out from their homes for anything more than church and weekly trips to the stores for supplies. Most days, the only signs of life from the brick houses being the plumes of smoke from the chimneys and the flicker of light from the lit hearths inside.

 

Emma had used the last of her monthly marital allowance - a prenup condition insisted by Gold - on buying a small electric heater for the greenhouse. The heater had done its job quickly, and a few hours after turning the motor on, the small room had become engulfed in an intense heat that fogged up the thin window panes and made the walls sweat with moisture. The plants seemed to be thriving well enough despite the change in temperature, and the near constant spritzes of water that were showered over the petals and leaves was enough to counteract the dryness of the heater.  

 

The two workers, on the other hand, were already itching in their clothes from the humidity. Emma had found a piece of twine to pull her hair back into a tight pony tail, but there was no remedy for how the fabric clung to her sweat slicked skin. By the frequency with which Killian was dabbing at his brow, he wasn’t faring much better. She had to pull her gaze away from him as he rolled his shoulders to readjust the linen stretched across his back. It was surly her imagination that the heat in the room seemed to double as she followed his movement.

 

Killian was the one to finally break twenty minutes later, running his hands under the cool water of the sink in the corner to cool off. “Time for a rest?”

 

Emma looked over from where she was finishing up the last geranium.

 

“What, Jones?” She teased with a victorious grin. “Can’t handle the heat?”

 

“Oh, I assure you. I most certainly can,” he replied, leaning against the sink and watching her as she cleaned up her station. Emma was sure his eyes were roaming her figure the way she had his moments ago. She would blame the resulting blush on the heat later.

 

“Of course! I forget that you grew up setting fires to innocent bakery ovens,” she teased.

 

“It’s one of my many skills, let’s say.”

 

Her task done, Emma joined him by the tap, rinsing her own aching fingers.  “Ah, and what, pray tell, are these ‘many skills’?”

 

She felt his lips brush her neck as he leaned over her shoulder. She nearly dropped the little bar of soap in her hands.   

 

“Gardening.”  

 

She hummed, leaning back into him. “Is that all?”

 

He seemed to think for a moment. “Sailing,” he finally added.

 

“Sailing?” She hadn’t expected that.

 

“Mhm. My brother and I used to sail every weekend growing up. We were quite skilled at it too. We thought we would one day join _La Royale_ and become the prides of the French navy.”

 

Killian was trying to distract her from the questioning as he placed light kisses at her neck, but Emma would have none of it. He had sparked her curiosity.

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

The kisses ceased, and she felt him sigh into her neck. Whatever the story was, it wasn’t a good one.

 

“Liam fell ill,” he finally began, twisting around to lean against the sink to face her. “We were at a market and stumbled upon a young boy selling a plant he called ‘dreamshade’. It didn’t look like much, but of course Liam had to have it. He had always been obsessed with the study of plants. I used to tease him relentlessly about it when we were children, but he never grew out of it.”

 

“A man with a fondness for plants,” Emma commented. “You _must_ be related.”

 

Killian smile grew sad as he continued. “He spent several nights examining it, and on one of the nights he must have have cut himself on one of the thorns. I found him unconscious in the morning when he didn’t come to breakfast.”

 

“Oh god.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

 

“I ran back to the market and found the boy. He admitted it was deadly and offered an antidote. For a price. Of course I obliged, and gave him everything I had.”

 

Emma was nearly afraid to ask. “Did it work?”

 

“Yes, but Liam was bedridden for months afterwards. And I couldn’t well leave him to join the navy with Liam the way he was, so I spent my days studying everything I could about the plant - and every plant, for that matter. I wanted to know what it was that had nearly taken my brother from me.”

 

“So you became a gardener?”

 

Killian shrugged. “It seemed the right thing to do.”

 

There was a hint of sadness in his eyes that broke her heart. A man with a spirit as wild and adventurous as his should not be locked away. He deserved his freedom as much as anyone else, and the cruelty of the situation left a terrible taste in his mouth. She hadn’t told him as much, but she had been planning a conversation with Neal in her head for days now, pacing her room at night rehearsing her argument. Perhaps Neal simply didn’t know what his father had done. Perhaps he would see past the pettiness and grant him his freedom. She had never known Neal to be a particularly cruel man - stubborn and short-tempered, yes, but not cruel. She hadn’t planned on telling Killian of her intention to talk to Neal in case Neal refused. The last thing she wanted was to provide him with false hope, just to see it ripped away again. But she couldn’t bear the hurt whenever he talked about his past life.

 

Placing both hands softly against his cheeks, Emma stared into the eyes of the man she had come to care for more than any man she had ever known.

 

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she promised, her voice barely more than a whisper. She felt him begin to turn his head away, to protest against her hope, but she held firm.

 

“I’m serious, Killian. You’re going to be free again. I promise you.”

 

He didn’t turn away this time. Instead, he just stared back, his face filled with awe. She had seen the look before on his face, in the reflection of the window panes when he thought she couldn’t see. Every ounce of affection she had for him was always reflected back in equal measure, and it never failed to make her heart flutter.

 

He deserved more than he had been given in his life. He was more than the doctors claimed he was, more than the lost boy they had turned him into. He deserved a saviour, someone to give him everything he had ever wanted. And while Emma was certain that wasn’t her - hell, she wasn’t even sure she could set him free from what her own father-in-law had done -  perhaps she could be enough for him for now. Perhaps they could be lost together.

 

Feeling the abundance of emotion rush over her, she pulled him in for a kiss. They had never gone much farther than simple stray kisses, both too afraid of being caught in the act by another overeager blond nurse. But they needed this, needed each other today, and there was no stopping the hands that wandered her body or the fingers that tangled in his dark hair. They were practically panting by the time Killian broke away, his mouth leaving where it had latched to her neck just long enough to lift her up so that she was sitting on the edge of the porcelain sink. As soon as Emma was settled, Killian positioned himself between her bare legs, his lips finding hers again as Emma’s fingers reached to tug down the waistband of his trousers. The position was awkward and they were both drenched in sweat from the hours of labour, but it would have to do. There was little time for nervous jitters. They would need to hurry.

 

Killian let out a shuddered breath as she palmed his length, his kisses becoming more sloppy as he hurried to push the skirt of her dress up and yanked clumsily at her undergarments. They gasped in unison a few moments later as Killian slid into her tight heat, his moves careful and tentative. It had been awhile since Emma had allowed a man to touch her like this, her physical relationship with Neal having ceased when she had fallen pregnant with Henry, and all but died in the time since. But as long as it had been for her, Emma knew it had been much longer for Killian, and the man before her was practically trembling, whether from want or nerves, she wasn’t sure. He’d frozen the moment Emma had stiffened in pain, his forehead meeting hers as he waited, out of breath, for her to give him a sign to continue. Emma ran a hand through the hair at the base of his neck to help sooth him as the fainest bit of discomfort faded into a much more pleasurable ache. When she was ready, Emma drew his lips back to hers, and the next moment the greenhouse was filled with the sounds of muffled moans and heavy breaths.

 

Emma’s hands gripped the back of his sweat drenched shirt as he moved within her, his hands steadying her as she slipped further toward him on the narrow ledge until he was practically holding her aloft on his own. She wrapped her legs tighter around his hips, pulling him in closer and drawing moans from both of them. It had never been like this before, not with anyone. Each movement, every thrust, was for her, to bring her over the edge, and Emma could feel that he was holding back for her sake. Not wanting to be the first to fall, Emma whispered words of encouragement in his ear until he gave in completely. In the end, they came together, shuddering in each others’ arms and gasping out each others’ names.

 

The lazy kisses that had followed afterwards were on the forefront of her mind as she crawled into bed that night, her soiled clothes hidden in the bottom of her hamper. She would worry about washing them later - for now, her mind was whirling with what would come tomorrow. She would need to talk to Neal - she and Killian had decided on that before she’d left. Killian needed to be released. And as neither were confident in the director’s generosity alone, they’d also decided on a contingency plan, and were prepared to bring in reinforcements if necessary.

 

Emma had begun step one as soon as she’d returned home; leaving Neal a note on his nightstand, requesting that he at least attempt to be home for dinner in the evening. Truthfully, it didn’t matter if he complied. If he didn’t return home, she would simply go to him. There was no time for waiting. A man’s freedom was at stake.

 

Not just any man. _Killian Jones_.

 

The man - quite literally - of her dreams that night.

 


	5. Five

* * *

 

Killian had been waiting bright and early as always, a handwritten letter clutched in his fist. It had been Emma’s idea for Killian to write a letter to his brother, explaining his false imprisonment and begging for his assistance if their plan to release Killian failed. Gold had forbidden him to send letters when he’d been in charge, arguing that the asylum’s official letter announcing his “admission” was sufficient. Killian had never heard of such a letter being sent, and truthfully doubted its very existence. He’d been too ashamed of the terms of his imprisonment to write to his brother anyways, too afraid of Liam’s disappointment at learning the truth about what he’d done. But with Emma’s help, Killian had composed a small letter to his brother using some stationary from the nurses’ desk and sealed it away in an envelope for her to post if Neal should prove stubborn. 

 

Over lunch, Ruby had given her hints as to what to say to him, and explained what medical advice would come across the most convincing. Emma had written it all down and had begun rehearsing it out loud when she’d started her preparations for dinner later that evening. Henry had giggled and cooed at his mother’s voice as she’d practiced explaining to him the reasoning behind the patient reevaluation she was requesting. Emma had smiled at his infantile excitement, wishing it would be so easy to convince his father of the same. 

 

Just as she was beginning to reconsider some of her lines, the front door of the cottage swung open and the man of the hour walked through. He looked tired. Not ideal, but hopefully not something that a hot meal couldn’t fix. 

 

Emma gave a warm, innocent smile at his look of surprise as she met him in the foyer to take his coat and hat. He hadn’t bothered to shake the snow from his boots or shoulders outside, and the front mat was slowly becoming drenched, but Emma made an effort to keep her tongue in check. It wouldn’t help her case if his mood worsened. 

 

Neal nodded toward where the kitchen table was adorned with decorative dishes, wine glasses, and candles. 

 

“Is this what all the fuss was about last night?” 

 

Emma shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t read too much into the gesture. “I thought a hot meal in such cold weather would do us both some good.” 

 

Neal said nothing, opting instead to kick his shoes into a corner and trudge over to sit at the table. He sat down in the nearest seat with an exhausted huff, not caring to remove the jacket that Emma had tossed over the back of it when she had gotten home. She’d been in a rush, and had made it halfway to the kitchen before realizing that she’d still had it on. 

 

Emma finished removing the last of the warm casserole dishes from the oven, taking care to place them on the knitted cozies that someone had given them as a wedding gift all those months ago. After checking to make sure that Henry was content with his toys in the nearby crib, Emma poured a fair serving of wine into two of the crystal glasses and seated herself at the other end of the table. 

 

Neal picked up the nearest serving spoon and began scooping a heaping mound of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Are you going to tell me?” 

 

“What?” Emma asked, confused. 

 

Neal gestured vaguely at the display in front of him. “What all this is. What’s the occasion?”

 

“Nothing,” Emma lied. “It’s just that - I’ve been thinking about what you said. About making the best out of being here.” 

 

“Oh?” Neal replied absently, cutting into a slab of the roast she had prepared.    
  


“Yes,” she continued, ignoring her own meal. “And I was thinking that I should be more involved in what you do. At Baudelaire, I mean.” 

 

“You can’t, Emma. You know that. You’re not a doctor.” 

 

“No, no. I was thinking that perhaps the facility would benefit from having an activities coordinator. I’ve already done so much with the greenhouse that perhaps I could branch out and do other things as well.” 

 

Neal hummed non committedly and continued to eat. Emma bit the inside of her cheek in frustration. She was losing him already.

 

“But I was thinking that I would need to know the patient statuses of everyone first. You know, to make sure that they wouldn’t be a risk to me or other volunteers.” 

 

“I don’t think so, Emma. It would be too much to organize. The nurses have too much to do without you bothering them about this as well.” 

 

“I’ve already talked to the nurses,” Emma insisted. “They think it’s a great idea. They’ve seen how much it’s already helped one of your patients. Killian Jones.” 

 

Neal’s eyes met hers for the first time, a mix of surprise and recognition clear in his eyes. Emma wasn’t sure if she was surprised that Gold had given Neal the name of his wife’s disgraced lover. Either way, it didn’t matter - Killian Jones was meant to be a free man, and Emma was sure now that Neal knew it too. 

 

_ Anger. Disappointment. Disgust. _

 

Perhaps it was well enough that Neal seemed to be lost in his own thoughts for a moment, or else he might have seen the flurry of emotion that passed over Emma’s face as the realisation that her husband had known all along that an innocent man was imprisoned within the walls of his facility washed over her. How dare he sit here and dine with her while Killian was being fed pills for an illness he never had? How dare Neal be the one to fall into the soft mattress of their bed upstairs after a night of food and drinks with his friends when Killian was forced to sleep in a cold cot under a threadbare blanket? 

 

Emma was nearly fuming at the thought, but she needed to regain control. She would have to play the rest of her cards carefully to win Killian’s freedom. 

 

“How have you met one on my patients?” Neal asked finally, his eyes returning to his plate. 

 

Emma forced some lightness into her tone. “He’s been helping me with the greenhouse. He seems to be extremely bright and talented. It seems a shame to keep him in the facility when he’s so cognisant.” 

 

“It’s just the medication at work, Emma. Don’t be so easily fooled.” 

 

“The nurses don’t seem to think so,” Emma countered.

 

“Well, the  _ nurses _ aren’t doctors. They have no authority here.” 

 

“But you do,” Emma pointed out, her fork forgotten on her plate. “All I’m asking for is a reevaluation. Have one of your doctors have a second look at him. I’m sure he is no longer a danger to anyone.” 

 

Emma could see the frustration growing in her husband. He let out a huff and sat back, a hand coming up to massage his face. Emma held firm, her cards played. It was a reasonable request, one that he could easily fulfill with a single word to his staff.  

 

“I don’t know why you bother with this to begin with,” Neal finally began again, sounding equal parts annoyed and disbelieving. “Why do you care so much about these patients?”

 

Emma didn’t quite manage to catch her tongue in time. “Why don’t  _ you _ ?” 

 

Neal rolled his eyes. “Of course I care. It is  _ my job  _ to care. It is  _ not _ , however,  _ yours _ .” 

 

“Please, Neal. All I’m asking for is a reevaluation. It would cost you nothing and mean everything to him.” 

 

“Oh, you know that, do you?” He mocked, his tone turning sour. “Believe me, Emma, I know this patient very well. He would tell you anything to get out of that place. They all would.” 

 

“That’s not true. He -”

 

“You know what,” Neal interrupted, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “I think we’re done here.” 

 

Neal stood up with a big push, the chair behind him jerking back and knocking the winter coat slung across the back of it to the floor. Killian’s letter slipped from where it had been tucked away in the outside pocket and skidded across the floor. 

 

The movement drew Neal’s attention in an instant, and before Emma could stop him, he was kneeling down to pick up the small envelope. He glanced up briefly to where his wife stood, back ramrod straight where she had frozen, halfway between him and her seat. Emma wasn’t sure if it was the fear in her eyes or the way her face had immediately paled when he had touched the letter, but Neal’s face darkened as he turned it over in his hands to read the scawled address on the front.  

 

Her weak “ _ Neal, don’t _ ” was lost immediately to the sound of the seal being roughly ripped open and paper unfolding. 

 

Emma couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t a single ounce of oxygen in the air as she watched her husband’s face slowly turn purple with rage, the thin note beginning to tremble between his fingers. She hadn’t asked Killian what he had written - it was meant to have been private, for his brother’s eyes alone - but she didn’t need to ask now to know what the contents must have revealed. The affair with Gold’s wife. The imprisonment. 

 

Her. 

 

_ Oh god.  _

 

“I wasn’t aware that you were sending letters on my patient’s behalf,” Neal started coolly, his voice calmer than the rest of him. He was a live wire, one that was ready to spark at a moment’s notice. 

 

Emma took a tentative step forward, her mind screaming against the idea. 

 

“Neal, I can explain - ” she started. Emma paused as her husband’s face darkened further, his jaw clenching in anger. 

 

“Explain what, exactly?” He spat. “Explain why my  _ wife _ would lie to me? Why she would go behind her  _ husband’s _ back to release a piece of  _ scum _ like Jones?”

 

Emma heard Henry begin to whimper at the raised voice, a small trembling sound that instantly grounded her. 

 

“Neal, I -” 

 

“Do you know what he did?” He was practically hysterical now. “He told you _so_ _many_ things, did he not? But did you tell you what he _did_?”

 

“Yes,” Emma answered honestly, her voice trembling through the calm. 

 

Neal’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “And yet you still care what happens to him?  _ He ruined my family! _ ”

 

“He didn’t! And even if he did, hasn’t he paid  _ enough _ ?” 

 

Neal snorted at that. “Oh, I see. It’s because you’re lonely, is that it? Killian Jones gives you a little bit of attention and you fall for every trick in the book, is that it?” 

 

“ _ Don’t you dare _ -” 

 

Neal stalked toward her, a malicious sneer on his face. 

 

“Don’t worry, Emma. I know exactly what kind of woman you are. Or do you forget that that’s how we met?” Emma was livid, her fists clenched and shaking at her sides. “But this is shallow, even for you.”

 

“It’s not as shallow as locking an innocent man up for years because of your  _ stupid, goddamn pride _ !”

 

Emma felt her head snap to the side even before the pain blossomed in her cheek. 

 

The room seemed to go silent around the pair, even as Henry continued to sob in his wooden pen. Neal had never been violent with her before, had never dared to raise a hand to her in the time she had known him. She’d seen him throw things and spew cruel words at her in a drunken fit of rage, but she’d always been the first to walk away from those arguments. She hadn’t wanted Henry to see his parents like that - see his  _ father _ like that. She had always considered herself fortunate that there had only ever been slight damage to the furniture to clean up in the morning, never wanting to imagine where else he could have focused his rage in those moments. But the faint tingling where his rough palm had connected to her face was anything but imaginary, and in an instant, the last remaining affection she might have once had for the man in front of her was snuffed out. 

 

Neal was nearly panting from the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his chest heaving and he tried to regain control of himself. Control that would come too late. 

 

“Fine,” he finally said after a few moments, his face now a carefully schooled mask. “You want me to be the bad guy? I’ll be the bad guy.” 

 

Emma’s felt her heart crumble in her chest as she watched her husband chuck the envelope and letter still clenched in his hands into the roaring fireplace as he fetched his coat and shoes from the hallway, refusing to look at her. 

 

“I’ll let the nurses know that you won’t be visiting Baudelaire anymore.” 

 

With that, he stalked out of the house, the door slamming shut with a bang behind him. The first few tears broke free as Emma crumpled to her knees, her wails matching only those of her son as her hopes and dreams of the future disappeared into the night, following the retreating footsteps of the man she had come to hate.

 

\--

Neal didn’t return home that night. Not that it mattered; Emma had slept in Henry’s room that night, curled up on herself on the lumpy chaise lounge. She hadn’t been able to stop the tears from coming throughout the night, and it was with swollen eyes that she was turned away at the doors of Baudelaire the next morning. Even as she hollered for her husband, cursing his name as the security team shuffled awkwardly around her, begging her to leave peacefully, Neal’s silhouette never appeared in his office window. 

 

It was Graham who was finally tasked with removing Emma from the grounds, mumbling apologies and knowing better than to ask what had pushed the woman into hysterics. Emma left of her own accord then, pulling her arm roughly from his light grasp and storming back to the cottage. Tink and Henry were both out for the morning - the caregiver had noticed Emma’s distress immediately, and had offered to take the infant to the park. Emma had been reluctant to lose sight of her lifeline, but she couldn’t be sure that Neal wouldn’t return in a fit of rage again. Losing her temper in front of her child the night before had only added to her guilt, and she wasn’t willing to risk it again. 

 

Instead, she cleaned. The remnants of the half eaten dinner were tossed away, the opened bottle of wine dumped down the sink. The dishes were scrubbed clean, the counters wiped down, the floors swept. Once that was done, she moved on to the rest of the house, cleaning sheets and doing anything but  _ thinking _ . She couldn't think. Thinking only lead to thinking about Killian, which only lead to her stomach clenching in knots. 

 

Had he shown up to the greenhouse that morning? Was he waiting for her now? Or had Neal enacted some sort of vengeance on the man, his screams of pain lost to the stone walls. 

 

She scrubbed harder. 

 

If Emma hadn’t forgotten to lock the door when she’d returned that morning, she wouldn’t have bothered to answer the knock that sounded a few hours later. As it was, the footsteps that found her kneeling on the bathroom floor, scrubbing the bathtub within an inch of its life belonged to Ruby. 

 

Emma stood up immediately, the bristled brush forgotten on the floor. 

 

“Ruby,” she breathed, relief washing over her. 

 

The receptionist looked pale, her teeth biting awkwardly on her red lips. “I’m so sorry, Emma. If I had known that this would have happened, I never would have -” 

 

“Is he alright?”

 

Ruby understood who she meant without question. 

 

“Neal had him assigned back to solitary. I guess they made room for him. No one’s allowed to see him.” 

 

Emma’s stomach dropped as she imagined Killian being dragged out of his cot in the dead of night, blurry eyed and disoriented as he was led back to the room that had confined him for years. Did he understand what had happened? Did he think she had turned him in like Milah had? Oh god, she couldn’t bear to think about it. 

 

“They can’t do that,” she whispered.  

 

“Emma, I know, but -”

 

“ _ They can’t do that!” _

 

“I know,” Ruby repeated, stepping forward to embrace the blond. 

 

They stayed like that for a while, Ruby murmuring words of reassurance as Emma trembled in her arms, desperately biting back her panic. 

 

_ None of this was supposed to happen _ . 

 

They had had a  _ plan _ . It had been a plan motivated by her affections for a man she had no business falling for, but it didn’t make the truth any less real; Killian deserved his freedom, and every breath he spent in his cage was an unforgivable crime. She hadn’t considered what a future might hold for him, what he might have chosen to do with his freedom. Perhaps he would have left, perhaps he would have stayed. Either way, it would have been his own choice, and Emma would have been happy for him. His possible departure would have left an irreparable hole in her heart, but she would have been happy for him all the same. But it had all gone wrong. Neal had learned about her and Killian in the worst possible way, and the future was not anything but certain. Killian’s future had been thrown into chaos, as had her own. Neal would never divorce her; he was far too proud for that, and there was no way else for her to initiate the process. Infidelity was a punishable crime in and of itself, and she could only hope that he would spare her that public shame of being labelled a harlot. Though if it quenched his violent rage, she would happily endure that instead. 

 

Henry. 

 

Oh god. Emma had always known that the law in France had been written with only the rights of the men in mind, but never had she felt the weight of its effect more than this moment. As her husband, Neal retained any and all custody for Henry, and was allowed to do as he pleased. Even if that meant banishing his wife from ever holding her baby boy again. He had threatened it before, in his darkest fits of rage, but had never had the resolve to follow through. Not until now. 

 

Emma’s heart stopped dead in her chest.  _ No _ . She would endure any punishment Neal would deal her, endure whatever crime of passion that the authorities saw fit to sweep under the rug, but she would never allow Neal to take away her son. 

 

They had to do something.  _ She _ had to do something. She couldn’t do this anymore - she couldn’t stay in the house any longer, the house she shared with a man who was as unloving as he was cruel. Even if by some miracle Neal allowed her to remain with her son, it was only a matter of time before something else sparked his rage, and she would never allow that to happen in front of her son again. She would never allow him to taint Henry’s heart like Neal’s father had tainted his. She needed a plan. Her mind seemed to clear in an instant, her resolve set. 

 

She would not be spending another lonely night under this roof. 

 

Emma stepped back, wiping the tears that had gathered in her eyes and fixing her gaze on her friend. “Ruby, I need your help.” 

 

The brunette nodded immediately, her face growing serious as she took in the change in Emma’s posture. “Whatever you need.” 

 

They would need a miracle. 


	6. Six

* * *

The plan, as it turned out, was fairly straightforward. Emma and Henry would leave that night. It was a horrible thought, taking Henry away from his biological father when the infant had never had a chance to know Neal. But the thought of Henry knowing the truth about what his father was capable of, the thought that someday her husband’s rage would turn against his own son in the manner he had last night, was worse than she could possibly live with. No, they needed to leave. Tonight.

 

They went over the plan a dozen times as Emma began to pack. As far as Ruby could tell, the entire staff had been notified of Killian’s reassigned living conditions and of their orders not to speak with him, though they hadn’t been told why. The rumours as to why Emma had thrown a fit at the entranceway that morning were even more vague, though most appeared to shrug it off as a lovers’ spat. It was on this that the plan was formed; Ruby would remain with Henry - and the few possessions that Emma would be able to bring with them - while Emma rescued Killian. Ruby’s access to the facility was restricted after hours, but Emma’s arrival at the facility with a packed dinner and a calm request to visit her husband would be anything but suspicious. A night guard who hadn’t been present to witness her early morning outburst would certainly not balk at such a request. They would be in and out without any interference, long gone before anyone could know differently.

 

It could work.

 

It had to work.

 

Ruby left to return to the facility to fetch the keys that Emma would need, her resourcefulness never failing to amaze Emma. If there would be one thing that she would miss in leaving, it was her friend.

 

Emma continued to pack as she began to pull together a meager looking meal that would serve as a mock picnic, mentally rehearsing the plan to herself as she awaited Henry and Tink’s return. When the nanny finally appeared, Emma attempted to calm her nerves enough to wish her a good evening. Tink said nothing about the change in her employer’s mood, though her jaw nearly dropped to the floor in shock as Emma handed over her pay for the month, along with a bit extra, and informed her that she would be staying with Henry herself continuing on. The nanny had bowed gratefully and, after leaving a last kiss goodbye on the infant’s cheek, left without another word.

 

It was a waiting game then, Emma nervously checking and rebundling Henry’s winter outfit to ensure that he would be warm and comfortable for the journey ahead. Truthfully, she had no idea how long the night would be for them, and she shoved a few extra baked goods and small jars of applesauce into her small travel bag just in case.

 

Emma had practically worn a groove into the wooden floors with her pacing as she waited for Ruby to return. She nearly sobbed in relief as she appeared an hour later, a set of keys clutched in her hands.

 

“All packed?” The brunette asked, eyeing the small collection of bags by the front door.

 

Emma nodded once, clutching Henry to her chest. If all went according to plan, they would only be separated for a few hours, but she was still reluctant to leave him. Sensing her distress - as her little prince always seemed to do - Henry’s arms came up to wrap around her as he pressed his nose into her neck. It was a small gesture, but it sent waves of calm over her, and she let out long breath to steady herself. She could do this.

 

Luckily, Henry seemed not to mind as Emma passed him over into Ruby’s waiting arms.

 

“I’ll meet you at the train station in two hours,” Emma reminded her, slipping on her warmest coat and boots.

 

Ruby gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll be there. Good luck, Emma.”

 

“Thank you, Ruby. For everything.”

 

The receptionist only brushed it off. “Don’t mention it. Now, off you go. You have someone waiting for you.”

 

Emma cast one last look around at the house that she had never been able to call home - the fake hominess as unwelcoming as it had been when she had moved in - and stepped through the threshold for the last time.  

 

\--

 

The cold wind nipped at her face as she crossed the field that separated her - no, _Neal’s_ \- cottage and Baudelaire. The sun had set while she had waited for Ruby to return, the winter cold making it feel far later than it was. Any other day, Emma might have complained about the darkness and the chill, but tonight, the blackness was her cloak. Slinging the basket of food on to her elbow, she pulled her hood up around her head in attempt to save her ears. She shoved her hands into her pockets, being in far too much of a hurry to stop to put her gloves on, and tucked her chin into the collar of her jacket. If she turned back, she would probably see the warm lights of the cottage behind her, beckoning her back. She couldn’t be sure, though; she didn’t look back.

 

Sure enough, there were a pair of half-frozen guards stationed by the entranceway. They were huddled next to small, electric heaters, much like the ones she had procured for her greenhouse, attempting to drive the chill from their bones. They stood up quickly from their stools as she approached, their eyes peering out of their hoods in an attempt to place the visitor in the gloom. Their eyebrows rose as Emma lowered her own hood, letting her blond hair fall loose around her shoulders.  

 

“Mrs. Cassidy,” the first guard said, surprised. “What are you doing out at this time of night?”

 

Emma lifted the handle of the basket toward the guard.

 

“I’m afraid my husband has had to work late again tonight,” she replied politely, forcing some cheer into her voice. “I thought I would bring him some supper.”

 

The guard glanced nervously at his partner. “We were told that you were not to enter the premises, Madame.”

 

Emma drew her face into a confused frown. “Clearly there has been a mistake in that matter then. I am bringing him his supper, as he requested. Did he _ask_ you to deny him his meals?”  

 

“Er - well, _no_ , Madame.”

 

“Then what is your reason for keeping me from my husband?”

 

“We weren’t told, exactly.”

 

“You weren’t told?” Emma exclaimed in feigned disbelief. “And you expect me to deny my husband his dinner on a rumour then?”

 

The guard paled at her rising tone, and by the way his partner kept his gaze fixed firmly on his shuffling feet, he would receive no help. A moment later, the guard stepped aside, nodding at the other to do the same.

 

“Apologies, Madame.”

 

Emma nodded shortly and shuffled inside, shoving her hands into her pockets again as she passed, lest they notice the tremble in her fingers.  

 

The reception desk was empty - not unusual given the late hour - but Emma couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness that Ruby was not there to walk her through this. Even with the receptionist’s instructions burned into her mind, there was still a lingering sense of fear and doubt.

 

Emma’s fingers tightened around the silver set of keys in her pocket. She couldn’t think that way now. Killian was inside, somewhere, waiting for her. Or worse, he _wasn’t_ waiting for her. The thought that he believed she had given up on him made her stomach churn, and her resolve was set again.

 

Her heeled boots clacked against the tile floor as she followed the directions Ruby had given her, the sound sending sharp echoes down the narrow hallways. She thought momentarily about removing them, but explaining why she was sneaking around Baudelaire in bare feet would be much more difficult than feigning ignorance about the whereabouts of her husband’s office, if she were caught. She descended one of the stone staircases without passing a single soul, and, for a moment, Emma had hope that the coast might possibly be clear the entire way to Killian.

 

There was no such luck, however, and it was only by the grace of the gods themselves that Emma was able to hear the loud laughter and chatter of two male voices approaching from a side corridor in time to duck into a cramped utility closet. She stood, heart pounding in her chest as the voices came to an abrupt stop outside of her hiding place, the men clearly expecting to have rounded to corner to face the source of the footsteps. Emma held her breath, unsure what to do or say if the door were to open now. She had made it so far, and it would be nearly impossible to talk her way out of this now. Instead, she held her breath, silently praying for help.

 

Finally, she heard the distinct sound of one of the men letting out a long breath.

 

“I keep telling you, Victor. This place is haunted.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jekyll. You can’t seriously still be on about that.”

 

“You would be too if you had been here as long as I’ve been. You _see_ things…”

 

Emma waited, her ear pressed against the door until the voices had long faded away. Then, slowly, she creeped the door open and slipped back into the hallway. Her pace picked up after that, too afraid of being caught out in the open to care about the loud echoing of her steps.

 

She almost missed the side hallway that led to the ward Killian was supposedly being stashed away in. It was narrow and windowless, the yellow light from the panels above casting an eerie glow and highlighting every crack in the colourless walls. She’d known the building was old, but this section seemed to have been all but forgotten, despite Neal’s insistence that the board was doing everything in its power to restore Baudelaire to its original glory. Standing in the depths of the structure now, though, Emma could see that the board’s generosity hadn’t extended farther than improving their own offices. Maybe - if he had taken the time to look - he might have seen how much his gilded world was falling down around him.

 

She made her way down the dead-end hallway, heart racing as she counted off the numbered plaques marking each door as she passed.

 

111

 

112

 

Each room seemed to be spread miles apart, and the ink was half worn off on some of the plaques, causing Emma to stall briefly as she tried to make out the number. The fractional delays it caused made her nervous; if someone were to pass by the hall now, there would be nowhere to hide. She needed to move faster.

 

115

 

116

 

_117_

 

Emma stopped short outside of the thick metal door that separated her from the isolation cell bearing the number that Ruby had burned into her memory. There were no other markers, no widow into the room aside from a narrow metal slot that was covered over by a sliding metal screen. No sign to identify whether the occupant inside was Killian. There was a light switch on the wall next to the door, one that had been flicked off by the staff when the sun had set. Or possibly it had been turned off when the occupant had been shut inside that morning. Emma dearly hoped it had been the former.

 

She flicked the light on, and immediately heard a rustling noise from inside the room. Her heart sped up in her chest - correct room or not, someone was definitely inside. And whoever was inside was now aware that she was there, and was simply waiting. She couldn’t very well call out to him and risk alerting any guard or doctor that might be nearby. She would have to take the chance that hope that whatever hope and faith that had guided her thus far would hold out.

 

Digging the set of keys from her pocket, she pulled out the one that Ruby had marked as his, and slid it into the lock. A quick twist of the wrist and a push, and the door was open just enough to slip inside and shut the door behind her.

 

The moment she was inside, rough hands seized her and she was shoved up roughly against the stone wall of the cell. Emma let out a gasp of surprise as the basket fell from her fingers, the contents tumbling to the floor as her hands flew to where her attacker’s hands clutched her throat.

 

“ _Emma_ _?_ ”

 

The hands around her neck were gone in an instant, the rough fingers moving instead to cup her cheek as she stared into Killian’s bewildered face. She threw herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around him as she drew him into a fierce hug. Killian returned it in kind, his hand burying itself into her hair as she clutched her to his chest, stammering out apologies. She hushed him, pulling back just enough to get a good look at him.

 

He’d certainly seen better days; there was a bruise on one cheek from where he’d clearly been on the receiving end of a right hook, and he had a nasty scrape across the corner of his chin, but he was still standing and the look of adoration in his eyes made Emma want to sob with joy. Leather wrist and ankle straps lay discarded on the bed, the metal clasps busted open. How he had managed that, she didn’t know.

 

Well, that wasn’t true. _She_ knew.

 

_He was a survivor._

 

Her heart filled with pride.

 

“You’re here,” he breathed, reaching up to stroke her cheek with his thumb. The relief in his voice nearly broke her.

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” She had meant to sound teasing, but her own emotions were getting the better of her.

 

Killian gave her a sad half-smile. “Can you blame me for being uncertain?”

 

It was the honest truth, but it still broke Emma’s heart to hear it. No, she couldn’t blame him at all.

 

“It doesn’t matter, love,” he continued, leaning his forehead to rest against hers. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

 

The statement was enough to shake her from her reverie, and Emma pulled back, catching his gaze. “Yes, and we have to go. _Now_ _._ ”

 

Emma had barely time to register the look of surprise that crossed his face before she dropped to her knees and began collecting the contents of the basket. Along with the poor attempt at a meal, Emma had managed to steal a coat, a fresh set of clothes, and a pair of old shoes from Neal’s closet. They weren’t the warmest, but they had been able to fit into the basket and Emma suspected they would do until they reached their destination. She thrust the bundle into Killian’s arms, and he grasped it more by instinct than by any real thought.

 

“Hurry, now. Put those on. We haven’t got much time.”

 

He froze. “‘ _We_ ’?”

 

“Yes, now hurry! Ruby is waiting at the train station with our tickets.”

 

“Emma, I can’t.”

 

The sadness of his tone threw her, so different than the energy that was coursing through her veins.

 

“What do you mean?” She asked, annoyed. Why was he just standing there, clutching the clothes to his chest? He was wide eyed, a look of deep disappointment tainting his features. He looked as though she had suggested that they march him to Neal’s office nude and turn themselves in. Did he expect privacy? They had already been intimate with each other, and they were about to escape into the night with each other. There was no reason to be shy about getting changed in front of her now.

 

“I can’t leave with you,” he said at last, his voice husky. “I can’t do this again.”

 

 _What_? He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t possibly want to _stay_.

 

“Killian, we don’t have time for this! We need to go.”

 

“No, Emma.”

 

“Why?” She had to force herself to keep her voice down, lest all of the guards in the entire facility be brought down upon them.

 

“Because I can’t!” He exclaimed, dropping the bundle on the small cot, as he ran a hand over his face in distress. “Emma, I can’t be the reason that another family is torn apart. Not again. Not to save me. My freedom isn’t worth that.”

 

Everything suddenly clicked. _He thought he was ruining her._ That he was somehow the reason that Emma Swan’s life had ended up exactly as it had. That, somehow, he was receiving the punishment he deserved for tainting another family with his presence.

 

And then the second realisation hit.

 

“Did Neal tell you that?”

 

He didn’t respond, but in the way his gaze fell to the floor in an instant, she got her answer. Whatever had happened in the hours since Emma had seen him last, whatever had caused the bruises and scrapes that marked his skin, had been Neal’s doing. She should have expected that Neal’s penchant for harsh words weren’t reserved for her alone, and Emma was well acquainted with his methods. She knew in a moment the way that Neal would have twisted every word, twisted every memory of their stolen moments together into something it wasn’t. How easy it was to weave a single strand of doubt through the mind until every memory seemed tainted. It wouldn’t take much to convince Killian that, by being with her, he was taking Emma away from the glorious life that Neal could provide her - a life of safety and security. Emma had heard the line before, slipped into every late night argument that she and Neal had had.

 

All day, she had feared for what she might have found done to Killian’s body at the hands of her husband, even if she had tried to block the thought from her mind. She had even been prepared for the possibility that Killian might have lost faith in her, lost faith in ever being rescued. But she hadn’t expected Killian to lose faith in _himself_.

 

She wanted to be upset, to cry, to do anything to show him how wrong he was. How wrong Neal was. But instead, what came out was laughter. Absolute, hysterical laughter.

 

Killian’s eyes grew wide as he watched her, confusion evident on his face.

 

“Well, maybe in that case you _should_ stay behind,” she finally began, walking up so that she was practically nose to nose with him. “Because if you think for just one second that I’m staying at that hell house - that _Henry_ is staying with that _monster_ for another second, then you really are as crazy as they say you are. There are so few people in this world that I love and I’ll be _damned_ if I stand by and let Neal take them from me. So by all means stay behind, but it’ll be awfully lonely here when Henry and I leave this place in a few minutes without you.”

 

She was practically vibrating as the words ran out, adrenaline, relief, and fear creating a strange mix that her mind couldn’t quite keep up with. Killian was staring at her, his face filled with awe and wonder as though she hadn’t just threatened to leave him behind if he didn’t smarten up.

 

“So few people that you…” Killian trailed off, his voice barely audible.

 

It took far too long for Emma’s mind to catch his meaning, to catch the words that she had let slip. But she wasn’t about to take them back.

 

Emma vaguely thought she managed out a ‘yes’ to his unasked question, or perhaps she nodded, but it didn’t matter. His lips were on hers before she could process another thought.

 

Her mouth yielded to his as she felt herself move until her back was flush against the wall for the second time, her hands tangled in his hair and his wandered her body. Killian gave as good as he got, kissing her as though he were starved of her touch, as though he couldn’t quite get enough of her with each press of his lips to her skin. Emma’s already racing heart was surely about to beat out of her chest, and it was only the feeling of his hands wandering to the hem of her dress that brought her back to her senses. She pulled away, nearly groaning at the way his lips attempted to chase hers for a second taste.

 

“Killian,” she breathed, opening her eyes to look at him. He looked utterly wrecked. “We need to go.”

 

“Okay,” he replied, his own voice cracking as he attempted to regain control of himself. “I love you too, Emma.”

 

“I know,” Emma teased, the grin on her face growing. Inside, her heart was singing. Even if he hadn’t just poured every word of it into his kiss, she would have known.

 

He snuck another quick kiss to her cheek before turning to examine the stolen clothes on his bare cot. Emma blushed as he winked at her before dropping his linen trousers to change into the slightly warmer ones she had procured, and she had to force herself to turn away and guard the door. They would have time for that later. The thought made her nearly giddy.

 

The shoes pinched his feet and the shirt was a bit baggy in places, but it would have to do. They slipped out of the room, leaving the discarded basket and food overturned on the floor. Once the door was locked, they began making their way out of the winding hallways, Emma leading. Every faint voice or whisper of a nurse had the pair ducking around corners, silently praying for a few more moments of safety. Killian would clutch tighter at her fingers each time, bringing their joined hands to his lips to press a soothing kiss to her knuckles as they waited. Each time, the voices faded away into the distance, and they continued their way through the maze of corridors and staircases until they reached the room they were searching for.

 

Ruby had explained that there was a staff door in the far wing that was rarely used in the cold winters, but which led to a parking lot on the other side of the facility. It was impossible to access from the outside, but from the inside, it was easy enough to find. They crept their way through the empty utility room that led to the door, too afraid to turn on any lights and leave evidence of their escape. The door was heavy from being sealed for so long in the icy winter, but after a few targeted shoves of Killian shoulder against it, it finally gave way.

 

A gust of cold air and snow hit them as they stepped outside, keeping to the shadows along the perimeter of the wall. Emma could feel Killian tense beside her at the cold - it had been a long time since he had stepped outside, and the chill was a harsh, but relieving sensation. Emma grasped his hand in his again, leading him around the building the way that Ruby had mapped for her until they reached the path that led through the hills and to the main road of the village.

 

Just as they were about to make a dash for the path, they were blinded by a pair of car headlights flashing on. Emma clutched harder to Killian, her other hand coming up to shield her eyes as a dark figure stepped out of the car, the motor roaring to life in an instant. Killian made to step in front of her, to shield her, but Emma pulled him back. There would be no self-sacrificing today.

 

The figure stepped in front of the beams, allowing Emma the chance to get a good look at the driver. She gasped.

 

Graham.

 

The groundskeeper was staring between the pair, face flickering between confusion and disappointment. But despite his pity, hope swelled in Emma’s heart again. If he was surprised to see them, then perhaps he hadn’t been searching for them. Perhaps he had simply stumbled upon them in their attempt to flee, catching them in his high beams as he left for the night.

 

There was still a chance that no one else knew of Killian’s disappearance.

 

“Graham,” Emma began, her voice serious. “Please, don’t say anything.”

 

There was no response, the groundskeeper’s lips pressed into a firm line.

 

“Please,” she tried again, her voice begging. “No one needs to know. You don’t need to be the one to tell them. _Please_.”

 

Graham was silent, his eyes searching hers. Emma remained strong, refusing to look away. The futures of all three of their lives rested in his hands, and Emma couldn’t be sure that she could stop him in time if he meant to sound the alarm. It was up to him, and the clock was ticking.

 

“The guards begin their rounds again in ten minutes. You’d best be gone by then.”  

 

Emma let out a sob of relief as she watched the groundskeeper walk back to his car, his figure obscured by the headlights once more. The sound of the loud engine had barely faded from the lot when Emma felt Killian squeeze her hand and pull her toward the path.

 

Ten minutes. They had ten minutes.

 

They ran.

 

They were halfway down the main road when the first signs of a commotion arose from Baudelaire. Faint shouts began to echo from the hillside, followed moments later by the sound of dogs barking. The pair sprinted faster, navigating through the fresh fallen snow to the train station that sat on the top of the steep slope. Ruby and Henry would be waiting just inside the doors, holding two tickets for the last train out of the village that departed in 11 minutes. From there, they would travel anywhere. They would visit Liam by the seaside, and then perhaps explore a new town, or a new country altogether. Henry could see the ocean. They could set sail in the spring.

 

The stars sparkled above them, a cloudless sky illuminated by a bright moon that shone down upon them as they ran. She could see the grey plums of smoke from the awaiting train billowing from over the top of the station’s peaked roof. They were so close now. Emma laughed, feeling more free than she had in years as she glanced at the man sprinting next to her. His clunky shoes sunk deep into the snow in places, likely filling with damp cold, but he barely seemed to care. She had never seen him look so _alive_ ; dark hair windswept, cheeks red from the cold. Eyes shining as he beamed back at her with his perfect smile. Killian Jones. There was no other man she would rather share her newfound freedom with.

 

Lights had begun to appear in the windows of houses dotted along the road to Baudelaire, their occupants awoken by the growing commotion in the hills. It didn’t matter - the trio would be long gone by the time the hounds reached the station. Ruby would slip away moments after their departure, returning to her home and feigning ignorance and surprise when she arrived at the facility the next morning to find the staff at Baudelaire in a scramble. Neal had never bothered to learn the names of anyone Emma had befriended, and while rumours would spread for a few weeks afterwards about the director’s absent wife and the disappearance of their most infamous patient, a certain head nurse and groundskeeper would remain unusually silent.

 

The last thought that flashed through Emma Swan’s mind as the pair reached the doors to the station, their hands remaining clasped firmly in each others’ grip, was a silent prayer and thanks for their fresh start.

 

\- Fin -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it, folks! Thank you so much for following along with this story. I loved reading each and every piece of feedback I got, and I’m so grateful for everyones’ kind words. This story was an absolute pleasure to write and I couldn’t have done it without my incredible beta, HelloTragic. I also wanted to mention here that the title for this fic is from a poem by Theodore Roethke, “Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light”. In this story, it’s meant to say that, in the depth ones’ their bones, everyone has love trying to surface, even when it seems hidden away. Until the next one!

**Author's Note:**

> Review? Come chat with me on tumblr @Best-Left-Hook-Jones


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